


Kaleidoscope

by RenderedReversed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, POV First Person, POV Third Person Limited, Secret Identity, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Story within a Story, Tomarry Big Bang 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:10:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: In a world where the only dark lord of the 20th century was Gellert Grindelwald, Harry Potter finds his soulmate: the intelligent, supercilious, enigmatic Tom Riddle, a man fifty-four years his senior.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Full summary on the Tomarry BigBang tumblr page (SFW):**
> 
> In a world where the only dark lord of the 20th century was Gellert Grindelwald, Harry Potter finds his soulmate: the intelligent, supercilious, enigmatic Tom Riddle, a man fifty-four years his senior.
> 
> But as Harry and Tom’s relationship progresses, war brews on the horizon. Grindelwald’s army is rising again, and this time, Dumbledore doesn’t seem strong enough to stop him. Fortunately for Britain, a new dark lord enters the scene: Lord Voldemort, a powerful, not-quite-human dark wizard whose one goal is to get rid of Grindelwald for good. Not much else is known about him.
> 
> Harry doesn’t have much of an opinion on him. He has other matters going on in his life—like the death of his soulmate, who mysteriously passed away just as Voldemort came to power. When they’re thrown together by the tides of war, Harry must face a fear he never thought would come to light again…
> 
> Maybe he didn’t know Tom as well as he thought he did.

“—Love bears a color. Do you know which it is?”

His hot breath fanned across my neck like a peacock’s tail, unfurling in some obscene display of vanity and lust. He was too close—just close enough, _not_ close enough depending on when you asked me—setting a trap like the seasoned hunter he was. It was either the wall or him, and that was really no question at all.

In any other situation, perhaps I would’ve bristled and pushed right back, but I could barely string together a sentence never mind put up a fight I was wholly unwilling to follow through with. In fact, I did not register his question until he pinched the skin of my hip, far enough away from his current area of focus that I jolted.

“Red?” I said, or thought I did, thinking of my mark—thinking of my hand. He chuckled and I felt the blunt pressure of his teeth at my ear. But his tongue followed soon after, and I forgave him.

At the time, I didn’t care for the question or the answer, but that he didn’t reply at all was odd. Tom loved to hear himself talk. That was all he did, some days—correct those less knowledgeable than he, dictate and command and expect to be obeyed without question. Most did. I, on the other hand, admitted that he had a very nice voice, but whether or not I was inclined to play along depended on the situation.

Now, however, it felt as if he’d forgotten a line in the script. He did not correct me, but I did not assume I was right. If anything, something was horribly wrong.

I pushed him back. He held like a mountain, head buried in the junction between my neck and my shoulder. By the flow of his breath I knew he was breathing me in, the scent I could not smell on myself the only fragrance he desired.

My worry brought back clarity. “Tom?”

He breathed out. I left his body, only to return upon his tongue when he pressed a wet kiss near my jawline.

“Harry,” he rasped, and he spoke in such a way that lost me all together. He was a million miles away, a thousand leagues beneath the sea, a hundred light years and a half across the universe, and yet the only thing he said was my name. I was pleased and anxious at the same time. It was rare that he addressed my importance to him—it was rare he spoke as if anything but himself was important to him.

“Tom? What’s wrong?”

I should’ve known, but that’s what they always say looking back into the past. It did not matter how many ‘what-if’s crossed my mind, how many ‘if-only’s I promised or begged. The past is the past. What was done was done.

He did not speak again. Instead, he resumed his task with renewed vigor that stole my mind away again. The memory of his disturbance did not leave me completely until he kissed me long and needy, and then I thought he’d simply had a bad day and wanted a bit of comfort. That, I was always willing to give without question, and so I forgot as he pulled me against him.

I should have known nothing was so simple with Tom Riddle.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was late that summer that he brought me to a secluded beach. I did not know exactly where we were, and as he offered no answer, I offered him no question. I trusted Tom inexplicably, even if I knew many people who would warn otherwise.

They were only working off what they knew, of course. We had our overt differences; I was quick to action—what he would call foolhardy—and he preferred action as the very last step in his grandiose schemes—the majority of which I might call overly complex.

We could butt heads like bulls, lock our antlers together until we bled our bodies dry, and that was what people saw: all the things that made us opposites.

But the marks on our hands were complementary. The red of my crystal and the green of his did not lie. And I will not lie, either; if we had any other color scarring our hands, perhaps I would not have gotten to know him, and he nor me, and neither of us would have ever been willing to learn how to trust each other.

The marks of our souls were two halves of a self-fulfilling prophecy, and I was inordinately glad for it, for it convinced me to learn his language and he, mine.

It was an uphill battle, sometimes. Tom built his appearance on being perfect because perfection, once established, was easy to trust. He told me once that people complied with perfection because they desired it for themselves, and as much as I wanted to argue otherwise, I had not found it false. Tom could be blunt to a fault when he wasn’t minding his words. It frustrated me how many times I was caught between vexed and flattered.

With his mask of perfection, it wasn’t always easy to handle knowing his imperfections. I could not deny I wanted to know them all, but upon each discovery, I troubled myself and stayed up late into the night, trying to wrap my head around the glaring flaws that made up his person. I wondered why I was acquainted with him at all, why I craved his companionship and valued his growing trust in me.

Then he would do something like this, take my hand in his, returning my bid for affection. He was just as human as everyone else was, feeling the same overwhelming emotions as the rest of us; I cared for him and he knew—even returned it in some measure—and because he did not know how to speak of it without botching it up, he told me in other ways.

We both did not care much for the beach; the ocean’s salt was not half as pleasant as the various perfume ads might imply, and while we could swim as well as the next person, our preferred entertainment lied elsewhere—him with his books and his notes, I with my broom or among friends. Still, it was a change of pace, and certainly fitting with how hot the weather had been as of late.

Cooling charms could only do so much. The sun was an insistent presence wherever we went. As an offhand remark, I said we traded our noses for our remaining comfort, and Tom had snorted but then quietly agreed.

It was also nice to take a break from society and enjoy time simply with each other. I was uncomfortable with crowds and strangers, but my friends were as good as family to me. Tom did not like people at all, though he was arguably the more social of the two of us simply because he minded his tools. Thus, an extended weekend alone was welcome; I thanked him for inviting me, and he said in more words and veiled metaphors that he wouldn’t have gone had it not been for me.

Though I hated the smell, I loved the perpetual breeze that came in with the sea. It brought with it relief from the sun as well as the memory of the sky; without a broom, I could not fly, and so upon the sand with my toes cold and wet was the closest I could get. I think Tom knew, because we ended up walking more than we swam.

I was perfectly willing to spend the whole time unwinding with Tom. We could do whatever—I didn’t care—as long as we were together and it wasn’t categorized as ‘work’ or ‘dangerous.’

We walked along until the end of the beach, and from there we swam around the cliff side until a small opening presented itself. The ceiling was low, and it was only possible to see now at low tide. The other times we were near, it had looked just like the rest of the cliff. Unlike the previous times, Tom lead me over. We then swam beneath it, our heads just shy of bumping against the rock.

“Where are we?” I finally asked, because for some reason it felt important to know now.

Tom did not answer right away. He led us further in to the crescent shore. The sand felt different here, the grains even softer beneath my feet, and they glittered with some unknown substance when the light hit them just so. Upon closer inspection, I realized they were seashells, buried deep and undisturbed by nothing but the waves. Each was colorful, smooth, and lustrous—cartoon stars in an imaginary sky. Had I not known better, I would’ve assumed they were fake.

“We’re not in Britain anymore, are we,” I stated, flat.

“No,” Tom said. “We’re farther south than that.”

“Greece?”

“Around,” Tom hedged, purposely vague and unrepentant for it.

I shrugged. It wasn’t the question I wanted to ask anymore. “ _Why_ are we here, then.”

“You have your wand?”

Exasperated, I nodded. The day Tom stopped springing surprises on me was the day we stopped being soulmates. He had bought me a wand holster several months ago for that explicit reason—though maybe it was also because he tired of seeing me pull it from my boots. I only owned one pair and thought I took fairly good care of them, but Tom never failed to glare at them when he thought I wasn’t looking.

They were high quality dragonhide. I didn’t skimp on protecting my feet; who knew when I would have to run from a dangerous situation. That was probably the only reason Tom hadn’t tried throwing them away and buying a more fashionable pair for me. So, I kept my boots, and he didn’t mention them. I did appreciate the wand holster, though.

“We’re going treasure hunting,” he declared.

I twisted away from the seashells I’d been eyeing. “Treasure hunting,” I repeated.

“Treasure hunting,” he confirmed. Then he headed for the cliff side further into the beach, leaving me to follow.

“Tom!” I called, speeding up to a brisk pace. Once I’d caught up, I said, “You can’t just say those things without explaining some. What’s the treasure, for one.”

His attention slid over to me out of the corner of his eyes. I gulped, seeing nothing but his amusement, but even that set me on edge. I trusted Tom with my life, true, but with my dignity was a whole other matter. ‘Treasure hunting’ usually involved some sort of obstruction or challenge. Would I fumble and make a fool of myself? Only Tom knew.

“Excited?” he asked, low and ominous.

And I, honest to a fault, replied, “Not anymore.”

Tom laughed. “A little faith, darling,” he said with a degree more of mockery than affection, “I could’ve brought us here during high tide instead.”

“…Right. When’s the tide coming in again?”

He seemed to enjoy my growing panic. “Now, would I do that? Put us on a tight schedule simply to watch you flounder?”

“Yes,” I replied without additional thought.

Tom sighed. “We can apparate, Harry.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “So why didn’t we apparate here, then?”

“I thought you would enjoy the view.”

Now, if it were months ago, I admit I would have completely ignored his answer. Tom did not mind lying by misconstruction or distraction. The only thing I could take at face value without putting myself at risk were his promises, and those were difficult enough to wrangle out of him.

However, as I learned, that did not mean everything he said needed to be put under suspicion. He told me once that the best lies were mixed with the best truths; it merely took some skill and attention to extract one from the other.

So, instead of waving off his answer, which would earn his silent morosity, I slid my hand into his and confessed like a secret, “I did enjoy the walk.”

“And the swim?”

“Especially the swim,” I told him. “It felt like going on an adventure.”

Tom hummed, pleased. “The adventure continues.”

“Treasure hunting?” I prodded, hoping I sounded less wary this time. And honestly, I was—now that he had assured our (relative) safety, my attention turned to what object could attract his interest.

“Would you like to hear a story?” he asked.

And, because I knew it would please him—to make things fair, my curiosity was also piqued—I urged him on.

“You are aware of the different types of merfolk.”

“I did take Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts,” I reminded him.

His snort told me exactly what he thought of that class. Still, I dared to nudge him with my elbow—it had been a fun class, and he knew how much I adored my beastly friends.

“You were correct as to our rough location,” Tom continued. “We are not in Britain; we stand closer to Greece. At the same time, it would be false to give a country’s name to this place—here or there, the answer is neither.”

I should’ve known Tom would not take me somewhere mundane. Salazar Slytherin would’ve had a difficult time convincing him to go to a tourist trap as a vacation, and Tom idolized his ancestor.

“Like an untraceable plot of land?” I asked.

“Something similar. A minor dimensional tear, millennia old, created this place. The doorway is not always the same. It may be in Greece; it may not be. The location is ephemeral—but not untraceable.”

I squeezed his hand, delighted once more and thankful. I could not help but think how far we’ve come together, how he cared enough to share his discovery with me. It was not yet to the point that I thought he would do it _for_ me—that distinction was a particularly important one, and I did not think so much of myself to dare that thought yet.

Still, I was touched, and impressed, and I wished to convey in a non-embarrassing manner how proud I was of his achievement. I did not think it was easy—nothing Tom ever did was.

He preened under my gaze, his smirk shallow compared to the earnest pleasure in his eyes. I loved to see him happy, and it was better still that _I_ had been the cause of his happiness. It pleased him that I was pleased, and I was pleased because I had pleased him. In this manner, we took pleasure in one another like two hummingbirds fluttering about the same flower, partaking in something intimate and innocent.

We moved together as it happened—just a second of time, but worth so much more in heart and weight. Times like these convinced me well and true that no other but he could be the mate to my soul.

Tom was a difficult person to please; I was learning how to manage it, and though I was yet to be perfect, my speed of improvement would make a cheetah flush in shame.

“What’s this to do with mermaids?” I asked.

“You could say this is the nesting place for one of the longest surviving colonies. We are currently in the season they come.” At my horrified look, Tom’s smirk grew wider. “Fret not; I have taken precautions to erase our trace. Regardless, they only come at high tide.”

“The-the beach?”

“It is only this cove they go to,” Tom clarified. “The beach can be here or there.”

I somewhat understood. The cliff we swam beneath must’ve been the doorway he talked about, but how it operated I did not know. Mollified, I decided to enjoy it as it was. Tom was a Slytherin through-and-through; it had been his Hogwarts house, and the blood of Salazar himself ran through his veins. If this trip proved life-threatening, he would be the first to notice.

Certainly, he had not survived so long with his penchant for dangerous studies had he not exhibited due caution.

“As you can imagine, a secret dimension hides more than a pod of mermaids. We’ve arrived.”

We had walked along the rock until a dip in the earth led us lower; there, hidden beneath a jutting rock piece and several other well-placed boulders was a cave entrance. I could not see farther than several meters within, and that was hardly enough information to tell exactly why this place was important. So, I left my inspection and turned instead to Tom. I found him watching me as well.

“There is a reason why this place attracts merfolk. It is incomparably safe, yes, but they were first drawn here for a more compelling reason.”

“Treasure hunting?” I asked again.

Tom smiled, all indulgence this time. “Indeed. Legend tells of a siren who once fell in love with a human. She brought him here, providing him safety from her kind who would’ve otherwise killed him with their voices. However, at the time, a giant sea serpent lived in the cove. When she went to visit him one day, the serpent was awake and attempted to devour her for trespassing.”

“A romance story for the ages,” I quipped.

“The oldest love stories often end in tragedy,” Tom remarked. “This one is no different. The siren managed to escape to this cave, though her bird half had been eaten by the serpent. Near death, her last wish was to see her lover again. As you can imagine, he was horrified to see her in such a state, and in an attempt to save her, he tried to replace her missing limbs with fish parts.”

“That’s…” I felt a bit queasy at the image of it. The sight of blood was not an issue for me, but the thought of a naked woman with large pieces of her bitten away—blood splattered over the stone cavern floor, caked over her skin as a replacement for cloth—and equally bloody chunks of fish sewn on in a poor parody of muggle surgery was…disturbing at best.

Tom continued, completely unaffected. “You may suppose that his solution did not quite work, and you would be correct. As her last final act, she sung to him—a voice he had never heard before, as she previously refrained from singing to keep him safe. Whether it was the power of her love or, more possibly, the power of her magic, upon her death she was reborn as the Mediterranean mermaid you know today.”

“What happened to the man?”

“Oh, him. She ate him.”

I choked. “What?!”

“Oh yes,” Tom said, not one bit disturbed. “When I said she was reborn, I did mean exactly that—there and then, her body fused with the fish parts her lover had used in an attempt to save her. Upon awakening, she found herself severely starving—I imagine rebirth takes large amounts of energy, so it was only natural. Her first sight was her lover, who was elated to see her revival…then horrified, for she lunged at him, mistaking him for food, to sate her hunger.”

“And she just…” this time, the repulsion must’ve shown on my face, for Tom did not allow me to finish and nodded along.

“She ate him entirely before she returned to her senses. He arguably kept her alive; had she not eaten something she would’ve died of hunger. As you know, the magic that sustains us lends some sort of buffer. We can go longer without food or drink, have more immunity to mundane illnesses. However, her magic had been drained dry due to her revival, leaving her vulnerable, and thus she would not have been long for this world without sustenance.”

“You’re taking me in here why?”

Tom chuckled. “Patience. I must finish. Upon realization that she had eaten her lover, she wept and decided to join him in death. Thus, she plucked her scales one by one and cast them into the ocean. These became the first mermaids. Her hair, she braided in a bundle and then cut. This blessed all her descendants with her beauty. Covered in the blood of herself and her lover, she performed a powerful ritual to slay the serpent, declaring this cove a sanctuary for others who might follow her.”

“Please tell me we’re not going in there to desecrate her corpse.”

“We’re not going in there to desecrate her corpse,” Tom replied succinctly. “It’s long gone, regardless. As a final act of her despair and self-hatred, she also sacrificed the body that had consumed her lover. The pieces of her shattered and scattered, becoming the shells along the beach.”

I decided to watch where I stepped once we left. “So if we’re not going tomb raiding—” I waited a beat, just to see if he would correct me and say we _were_ going tomb raiding, “—then what treasure are we hunting?”

“I’ll show you instead,” Tom said, and then ducked into the cave. As we were holding hands, I was pulled along with him, though the force was more like a soft tug. The idea of adventure attracted me, and so I was more than willing to follow—even after that morbid story.

We both pulled out our wands and cast a lighting spell.

Eventually the thin winding path ended, filling out into a larger cavern. The light from our spells faded, as there was no need for them here; crystals embedded in the very walls provided a waxy glow. It was like being in a room with a hundred—no, a thousand candles, their flames all cradled in the center of the waxen shell. I swiveled my head left and right, trying to take in the entire view all at once.

“Well,” I said, “That was easy.”

Tom chuckled. “We’ve not found the treasure yet, darling.”

“No? Seems like treasure to me.”

Amused, Tom shook his head. He pulled me along and I complied, though my focus was more on the walls than where we were going. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the crystals were actually shells: seashells, just like those buried in the sandy beach above.

At some point, I felt us descend. There were no stairs, but the stone floor of the cave tilted into a long, loose spiral downward. The seashell lights appeared to be a permanent fixture, so I eventually tired of them and refocused on our direction. Tom continued at the same leisurely pace, so I too naturally did not panic.

The further we went, the colder it became. I stiffened when I felt the caress of a draft; it was not my imagination either, for my bare torso was not in any state to tell a lie.

At the very end of the path was another smaller cavern. Even the ground was embellished with those glowing seashells—I knew then that we had reached our destination. The draft had become stronger, the breeze brazen and the following chill glacial. In the very center was a pool of water. I could not tell whether or not its sheen was a reflection of the shells’ lights, or if it was from some inner magic yet unidentified.

“If we follow the story, this place is where she perished.”

“It feels just as creepy as it sounds,” I muttered.

“Is it?” Tom asked. “I find it fascinating—she was driven mad from her actions, that which she had performed to survive. In the end, it was all for naught; she killed herself anyway. The end was not much different than it would’ve been—eventually, her lover would’ve died, either to the serpent or another siren passing by. Perhaps she herself would’ve killed him; a mere melody would’ve lured him out to his death.

“Death was their fate, and yet if the story is to be believed, her foolishness created an entire new race of magical beings. Would that be considered a reward, or fate’s mockery? Life, cast from a life who no longer wanted it.”

It was indeed a great irony. Tom criticized her, calling her foolish, and yet I thought her an admirable soul. She could’ve committed suicide after realizing the barbaric truth, and yet, she hadn’t. Instead, she had considered those who would come after her—those who would inevitably feel the same love she had felt, perhaps feel the same pain as the pairs were rend apart by death, or by their own identities.

I was reminded of something I heard on the streets of muggle London. It was a passing conversation, and I a passerby, and yet it stuck with me until now. I quoted it then: “If a bird and a fish were to fall in love, where would they live?”

Tom being Tom, provided an answer. “There is no difference between the sea and sky in death.”

“But that’s not living, is it?”

“Certainly not,” he replied. “To die for love is a foolish thing. What love can exist in the void that is death? But when the ignorant are desperate, they turn to the things still unknown; death is a void, or a hole. They fall through together, seeking something that doesn’t exist on the other side. It is a fool’s quest, and only foolish fish and foolish birds would fall in love. Hence, death.”

My heart ached, and I did not understand why. “What if they weren’t foolish?” I asked. “What if they were…”

“Marked?”

I squeezed his hand as if it would bring back moisture to my throat. It didn’t. “Yes,” I said, because that was all I could say. I feared his reply.

Whether or not what he said next were his true thoughts, I didn’t know. I hoped they were; I prayed to the gods they were. I did not know what happened to him in the past, would not know until he told me, but I knew something was there—a person didn’t become like Tom without a reason. If this was a lie, let it be so, but if it was truth, I wish I had told him I loved him then and there.

“Love is a choice,” he told me, very carefully and deliberately. And yet still, even in that slow and easy pace, he was calm and held certain. That was why it was so difficult to prove he told a lie—in the moments that he spoke, he did not leave one pinprick loose that his words were false.

“The world will lay out any array of things, scatter them by the four winds to travel along the ocean’s waves. We see these things and try to connect them—that is the manner of humans. What symbols we find, true or not, convince us to believe certain thoughts, fact or fiction.”

“Is love false?” I asked, trying to hide my trepidation.

“It is a choice,” Tom repeated, not unkindly or too gentle. “No matter what reasons there are behind the choice that is made, it is a choice. If the bird and the fish are bound by souls, so be it; they are bound. Their love is a separate matter altogether. If they choose to love, they are foolish—”

“But?” I whispered.

He turned to face me then, and I thought I saw something curious reflected in his eyes. This was a horrible, terrible place for a conversation such as this, but it was Tom and somehow that gave it a little more sense than it deserved. I wished I could say it was perfect, but it was the farthest from. The wind did not stop for us; the ghosts of the past still existed…but.

All I wanted to know was his hand in mine.

Tom smiled, close-lipped and slight. It appeared so fragile I wished to support it with my own two hands, while simultaneously I feared to touch it lest it flake away into sheets of ice.

“But it is not false,” he said to me.

And I hoped that it was true.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The treasure hunt that summer had been successful. From the cove, we had managed to collect something Tom called ‘mermaid tears.’ I had thought them sea glass upon first inspection, but they did have some sort of magical aura that made me hesitant to touch. Tom had packed the colorful shards away in a pouch, and I did not see them again until long later.

December came, and as per tradition, the annual Weasley family-and-friends Yule dinner came as well.

Needless to say, Tom was not looking forward to it. Still, he had promised me the first time that he would come if I came, and so we would go without question. To balance the bill, I would attend the Malfoys’ Yule Ball as his plus one, and act cordial and polite as he did for me.

We ran in different circles, to say the least. Most of my friends did not like Tom, but they tried to be nice—he was my soulmate, and would not be going anywhere for some time. That he made me happy was the reason they accepted him into their house and home, unquestionably. I loved them for it, because Tom was an acquired taste and few would suffer the acquiring process.

Of course, one of the longstanding issues they had with him didn’t have much to do with his personality at all—it was his age. Tom was fifty-four years older than I, and yet somehow, we were soulmates.

It was an uncommon situation. Rare. Soulmates were usually born closer in years together; it was something about how souls worked, Tom had once told me. Soul magic was an unstable, unstudied field, but Tom had delved into it early on. He wanted to know why his soul mark came so late—why we were born so far apart, why our souls were held separate in a revolution that would not coincide.

A soulmate’s existence was to serve as balance. Magic could be a fickle thing, and the human form was not made to accommodate its whims. Hence, the existence of a soulmate on earth—regardless of location—ensured that the soul was large enough to contain a wizard or witch’s magic.

But Tom had been born, had lived, without one. He had not gone mad, had not become a victim of his own power. It was surprising, and it was not—his control had always been legendary; how else would he have been able to cast wandless magic? And so he lived depending on no one but himself…until I was born.

He was old, and he was not. The only sign of his age was that his hair was not so dark as mine, and the wisdom in his eyes could not have existed in one younger than he. It offset many of my friends, especially Hermione—she grew up in the muggle world where such a relationship would have been vilified and condemned without question. She was unaccustomed to a wizard’s life span, especially one as powerful as he, and it showed in that she was the least comfortable interacting with him.

I, on the other hand, had long come to terms with it. My affection for him was not solely because he was my soulmate—that had been the terms of our acquaintanceship. Sometimes the difference between he and I showed in our conversations; devils would sooner drink holy water than Tom contenting himself with my ignorance. But in times like those, he was rarely condescending, and that helped.

I once thought he would’ve made a good teacher. Then he snapped at Ron’s owl when it collided with the window, and I left that thought well alone.

Putting the fact that he was old enough to be my grandfather aside—though no one dared to forget; with his appearance, it was easy to and that made them all the more insistent on remembering—this was not the first Weasley dinner he had attended, and so there was little to fret about.

Everyone would be perfectly on their toes, perfectly polite, and he would return the same courtesy, for it would please me and he would rather face my friends than my ire.

I did say it would be a Weasley dinner, but the name was not inclusive enough. Any friend of the Weasleys came, and in particular, the significant others of their family members. I was considered an honorary member—along with Hermione, who had once dated Ron until she found her soulmate in a Bulgarian named Viktor Krum—and so the invitation was more tradition than necessary. I would come as I always did, bringing along Tom.

This helped, I suppose. The extra attendees ensured a wide variety of people, and so the significance of Tom dimmed somewhat. There were also people genuinely pleased to meet with him; Viktor, for example, respected Tom for his expertise and followed many of his publications. Bill, the eldest Weasley sibling, also got along well enough with him. They bonded over stories of dangerous adventures, common for Bill as his job was a curse breaker for Gringotts.

Charlie, the second eldest sibling, might’ve been a contender had his focus not been so tightly held by dragons. Instead, he merely respected Tom from afar as one with superior knowledge than he. I supposed that was good enough. None of the Weasleys were openly hostile.

There was also Andromeda Tonks, whose maiden name was Black. She was distantly related to Molly Weasley. Though she had been disowned by her family because of her marriage to muggleborn Ted Tonks, she was indeed a Black daughter and was quite comfortable speaking in the realm that Tom was more accustomed to.

And so, dinner proceeded. The Weasleys once again somehow made room for everyone at their table, I once more enjoyed the company of my friends all at once—which was a difficult task to accomplish with our busy schedules—and Tom passed the time either with me, conversing to the very few people who would like to, or locked in a game of chess with Andromeda.

I noticed Ron side-eyeing that particular table, but because he was warier than interested, I let it go. He was a longtime friend—my first, I would claim—and I knew he often worried even when he was masterful at disguising it. Beneath layers of inattention and laziness, Ron was sharp. He wouldn’t be able to go toe-to-toe on the chessboard with Andromeda otherwise.

“So how’ve you been, Harry?” he asked, sprawled out on a couch and patting his dinner-full belly.

I knew he wasn’t actually asking how my week had gone, because we had already discussed that over dinner. However, I didn’t like the other answer my brain had come up with either, so instead I hummed, and watched as Fred and George set up yet another prank. I reminded myself to steer clear of the house plant until someone else tripped it.

Hermione would be joining us at any moment.

“Things have been good,” I finally said.

“Good? So managing, are you?”

“ _Ron._ ”

At my reprimand, he muttered an apology. “Just want to make sure you’re alright, mate. You never did say where you went on vacation, you know.”

“That was months ago,” I exclaimed, baffled.

“Heads up that Hermione will probably ask, too,” he said. Then we fell silent.

He was worried and I wished to reassure him. The vacation had been amazing and we weren’t mauled by mermaids—but if I said that, he’d probably look as if I’d gone mad and insist on a checkup at St. Mungo’s.

Fair enough. I gave him that a weekend getaway where no owl could reach me might worry him—specifically that I didn’t know where we were going, either. I was a capable wizard, but Tom was even more capable—who knew if his idea of a vacation was raiding a pharaoh’s forsaken cursed tomb, or something. Or something to deal with spiders. Ron was traumatized from a stint in our Hogwarts years.

“Harry, Ron!” Hermione greeted, finally among us again. She hugged us both, though she had hugged us before dinner as well.

“You’re looking good, Hermione,” Ron mumbled as he returned her hug. He nodded to Viktor in greeting, who was standing across the room in a conversation with Charlie.

“Thanks—as are you both. Um, you look a little tanner, Harry?”

I smiled, helpless. I figured I might as well get this over with. “Tom took us to a beach during the summer.”

“Oh, yes!” She clapped her hands and ushered us all to sit squished in one couch. “Where did you go? How was it? You didn’t say in your letter!”

I did want to brag about Tom’s brilliant feat—Hermione would be in awe, surely—but I knew it was not what he wanted, and just as well I desired to keep that secret place between him and I…even from my dearest friends. So instead, I said, “It was somewhere in the Mediterranean, I think—I can’t recall the name. And it was beautiful; clean sands and clear skies.”

Hermione squeezed my hand. She was probably relieved it was some little mundane vacation rather than whatever else she had thought it was. “I’m happy to hear it. Perhaps Viktor and I should go next summer; we haven’t been to the beach in a while.”

“You should,” I agreed, and wound my arms around her so all three of us formed some awkward looking pretzel. “Anything new with you?”

Ron scratched his cheek. “Well…the department got a new case recently.”

“Another one?” Hermione furrowed her brow. “You just finished one.”

“Crime doesn’t rest? I dunno.” He shrugged. “Well anyway, it’s still new so there’s not a lot of information, but…”

He paused, and in one practiced motion, Hermione set up an additional privacy ward. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tom turn our way. He was particularly sensitive to magic, so I nudged him back with a tendril of mine. We were fine, I told him, just talking.

He inclined his head and turned back to his chess game.

Meanwhile, Ron had said, “Something’s going on. Overseas. It’s not exactly in our jurisdiction, so…”

Hermione frowned. Then she slowly repeated, “Overseas…”

His gaze turned sharp. “You heard anything?”

“It…wasn’t big,” she began, “And I didn’t really think much of it. But Viktor got a letter from his family while we were stopping in Germany, and...”

That didn’t sound good. “And?” I prodded.

“He didn’t really tell me what it said. But we left the next morning, and I thought he looked a little worried. At the time I just thought he didn’t want to be late—you know Viktor, he’s always very punctual—but it was odd.”

Ron frowned. “Isn’t his family some uptight pureblood family?”

Hermione scowled. “Ron! _No_. They aren’t ‘uptight’ in the least—though pureblood, yes,” she admitted. “The last time we had dinner with them they were very pleasant to me. I think they just want him to be happy.”

Or, I thought, they respected the meaning of soulmates. Viktor’s family certainly followed Tom’s writings. They would know about his published studies in soul magic. Souls were worth more than blood.

“Huh,” Ron drawled. “Well coincidentally, our spy thought there was something wrong in Germany, too.”

All three of us grew quiet. Germany the country, we had nothing against, but with the war having been so close to our generation, it was not surprising that the name held some connotations. Trouble stirring in Germany gave us all chills. It reminded us of the late Gellert Grindelwald, who the older generation told us stories about—terrible stories that were enough to give any child chills.

In retrospect, looking back, it was entirely unexpected we would have news—or some inkling of news—about Grindelwald. We three, no more important than the rest, just friends with a penchant for attracting trouble, heard the warning bells before many else did. I would not have regaled this tale of a Hogwarts trio catching up on the times elsewise—I simply thought it funny that we could’ve known. But we didn’t, and the conversation was forgotten when we each independently pushed it all away.

What did we know—an Auror, a low Ministry of Magic employee, and a wandmaker? There was not enough evidence to connect the pieces then.

I noticed near the end of our conversation that the chess game had finished, and Tom was now talking to Viktor. I also thought nothing of this; it was normal, and the rest of the party passed in a similarly mundane fashion.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Malfoy Yule Ball was a gathering of elitists. Or at least, that was my opinion of it. Purebloods were as common as grass, the oldest and most powerful families all in attendance. There were Blacks, Notts, Greengrasses, Lestranges, Carrows, Averys, Crabbes and Goyles—all ‘dark’ families. Of course, the Malfoys being the host, there were more neutral guests in attendance as well.

The Weasleys were not in attendance (something to do with a blood feud, I surmised), but the Abbotts were, as well as the Diggorys. Other individuals with political status were a dime a dozen.

I felt out of place. My robes fit perfectly—of course they would, specially tailored and high quality as they were—but they still felt like shackles with every step I took. I was unused to dressing up. The only parties I ever went to were weddings, and there I was friends with some of the guests. Here, I hardly knew anyone, and those I knew were with string-thin ties.

For Tom, I bore it. He was worth seeing all my old Slytherin classmates again, worth wearing these stuffy dress robes, worth putting up with all the staring. Here, the gulf between Tom and I was our social status. By blood we were the same, if one ignored the Slytherin name, but status and repute was a whole other matter.

If things had been different, perhaps I would’ve been in attendance regardless of Tom. The Potter name made it possible, but in the end I chose my lion’s pride and a small wand shop. I did not regret that choice.

The pleasantries were simple, if not exceedingly dull. Tom led me over to the host of the party, and I settled in for a long night.

I noticed a familiar figure standing in the small circle as well; it was Draco Malfoy, my once school rival. I expected him to be among others than still around his father, but perhaps the night was still early yet—plus, Horace Slughorn was there. From Tom’s stories, I surmised he was ‘fishing’ again.

“Malfoy,” I greeted, more personally after the preliminary greetings were done.

He nodded back. “Potter.”

We had reached an…accord, a long time ago. Quidditch had been our main contention after the first two years, and come graduation when that was no longer on the table, we had little reason to mudsling each other. Besides, he had grown better with time—there was less, “My father will hear about this!” and more, “Well, let me prove you wrong with my dazzling genius.”

Sure, the marked improvement had been small, but it had been there.

Now, so long from our Hogwarts years, time had further mellowed the tension between us. We were not friends, but the option was not out of the question. It was the camaraderie built through sweat and blood on the Quidditch pitch—mutually assured destruction of our aching bones and muscles—or so I liked to believe.

Slughorn was eager to see his old student again, a prized member of his once entitled ‘Slug Club’. He greeted Tom with great, though suitable enthusiasm, shaking his hand and acting as good old friends reunited at last. I did not doubt there was some truth there—from what I knew, Tom was a gold star student with the NEWTs to show it.

“Dear Tom,” he exclaimed, wiping his forehead from sweat with a handkerchief, “It has really been far too long. Perhaps you should join this old man for tea soon, just like the old times?”

“Certainly,” Tom replied, perfect smile stapled in place. I resisted the urge to laugh. That smile I knew anywhere, and the brighter it was, the greater the contrast in his actual mood. “There is much to speak of, Horace.”

“Yes, yes,” nodded the old Potions professor. “I heard word of your new book, ‘Eyes of the Soul’? How exciting, truly! The study of soul magic has been sparsely scattered through time; why, I have not heard word of modern study of it until you began! And now, another book!”

“Oh, not quite yet,” Tom replied. “I still must review it; the article was but a small excerpt to gauge reactions.”

“Many of my associates voice an interest in it,” the Lord Malfoy offered. While cordiality held him back, I knew he was similarly close to Tom as Slughorn was. Abraxas Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy’s father, had gone to school with him—technically, Tom had known the current Lord Malfoy since he was but a baby. He was as good as his godfather…and Merlin was that awkward to think about.

“Aren’t we all, I say!” Slughorn was practically beaming. “The soul is not an archaic art; it is here and present and affects all of our lives! The only reason no one has studied it is the danger involved…it takes a particularly skilled wizard for it, yes. I always knew you were destined for great things, Tom.”

Well, at least he wasn’t two-faced with his flattery.

“Why, I remember as if it were just yesterday… You were but a young lad, excited and hungry to learn more of magic. You came to my office, yes, as you often did—the most immersive conversations I have ever had with a student—and you asked—why, you asked about—”

His eyes slid over to me, as if taking notice of the arm tucked into Tom’s for the first time.

“And might this be who I think it is?”

Now, I must admit, for a Slytherin Head of House, Slughorn was the farthest from subtle. Anyone with a half-operating pair of ears could hear his set up from half a ballroom away. But it was Tom’s business what Slughorn could be ‘used’ for—his words, not mine—and I was not interested enough to inquire. Politicking always drove me mad; I had no skill for it.

To my surprise, his next words did not proceed as I thought they would.

With a shocked, amazed expression, Slughorn murmured, “Those eyes…I would know those eyes anywhere! My word, Lily Evans! You are her son, are you not? Lily’s son! Blessed Lily!”

He knew my mother’s name. Thinking back, he was a professor during her time of attendance, but I had not connected the dots until now. I heard she was a brilliant student, a true Charms witch. I did not know personally—word of mouth from my old professors were all that I had. She was long dead, and the only thing I remembered of her was her soft fiery hair and the lullaby she used to sing.

“You knew my mother?” I blurted.

“Knew her!” Slughorn exclaimed, “Knew her? Why, Lily was one of my very brightest! No one could rival Tom, of course, but she was the brightest witch of her age, certainly! Oh, Lily—she was the sweetest thing, but step one foot out of line and she could be most fearsome! Her and Severus, yes, best of their year—Lily Evans! She had the potential to be a potions master, had there only been a bit more time…”

I was startled to see he looked genuinely regretful even indirectly mentioning her death. It was a look I had only ever seen on my professors. No one else had ever offered their condolences and meant it.

“Terribly sorry, my boy…but I didn’t quite catch your name?”

It was a little insulting to still be called ‘boy’ at my age; I was twenty-two, not eighteen! To a man of his age though, perhaps that was what I was to him. He was considered old when Tom went to school. I had no ground in that argument.

So I answered, “Harry James Potter,” hoping the mention of my middle name might fish some other esoteric details of my parents.

“Harry James, Harry James… A fine name! A nod to your father, yes? Following tradition, I see,” Slughorn said, enthusiastically shaking my hand. I went along with it. “Oh, and how rude of me! I haven’t even introduced myself! My name is Horace Slughorn, Tom’s old Potions professor.”

“Oh yes, he’s told me a lot about you.” It was not necessarily a lie. Slughorn’s name had popped up as much as any other associate of Tom’s—that they rarely entered our conversations, no one needed to know.

Slughorn beamed. “But of course! Tom was my favorite student. Not to say you weren’t a fine pupil yourself, Lucius—your dueling was just as good as your father’s!” And that truly was a compliment; Abraxas Malfoy was hailed the top duelist of his year, though Tom had revealed to me he had found victory enough times that it bored him. I did not doubt it; there was little reason to boast about beating a dead man.

Lucius took it for what it was. Unfortunately, the conversation was then redirected toward me.

“And I suspect…that you are…?” Slughorn sent a pointed look at our entwined arms.

“Indeed; we are soulmates,” Tom replied. I thanked him thrice in my mind; as interested as I was in Slughorn’s relation to my mother, I was equally rebuffed by any interest in _me_.

“So you’ve finally found him. I suppose congratulations are in order—though rather late, unfortunately.”

“My apologies, Horace; you hid yourself away far too well this time. None of my owls could reach you,” said Tom. Whether Slughorn could tell he was lying or not, I didn’t know, but I could suppose if Tom felt confident enough to say such a statement, he didn’t risk offending the man.

Slughorn chortled then, pleased at the backward compliment. “It’s of no issue; we really must have some tea sometime! And why not bring Harry with you? I would love to hear more about your meeting when there’s more time to chat…”

My and Tom’s presence were clearly not enough to make him stick around. Slughorn soon waddled off to greet some other old student of his, and we bid the Malfoys farewell as well to leave them to their rounds…and Tom’s, for a good deal of people sought to speak with him.

Perhaps anywhere from half an hour to an hour later—I could not recall exactly how long it’d been; it would have been considered rude to check the time as constantly as I would’ve liked—just as we were finishing up a conversation with the esteemed Antonin Dolohov—and I say that with some seriousness; apparently he was one of the best duelists of his generation, second only to Abraxas—I noticed out of the corner of my eye Draco, standing across the room.

Now, this would not have been notable if not for the fact that he too noticed and locked eyes with me. Then, in a quick gesture bred from years of Quidditch, he turned his head, made a slight motion with his hand, and then briefly locked eyes with me again before pivoting and walking out to the nearby balcony.

It needs to be understood that Quidditch, well, knows Quidditch.

Slytherin and Gryffindor spent years deciphering each other’s codes, seasons making up new ones in hopes of baffling their bosom enemies. Seekers especially had to learn quick on their feet; our observation did not only lend to the snitch. We were the eyes of our team, and if we were blind, our teammates might as well all be wearing eyepatches. It thus followed that when Draco Malfoy of all people made a distinctly Gryffindor hand signal, the first thing I thought was, “No wonder they were able to read our plays that season. They knew all along!”

I also wasn’t surprised, which helped maintain the poker face Tom and I had made a bet on—if it managed to survive the entire night, the victory would go to me. And I definitely intended the victory would go to me—there was no way I was going to give up on the current prize pool. That aside…

“I’m going outside to get some fresh air,” I told Tom. “It’s too stuffy in here; must be all the purebloods.”

If we were alone, Tom would’ve snorted. Unfortunately, we were in a public setting and snorting was ‘uncouth,’ so he inclined his head instead and I disentangled myself from his arm, seamlessly moving in the direction Malfoy went.

It seemed like only yesterday I was throwing him into stands with my Wronski Feints. Now he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking so much like Lucius that it was a bit unnerving.

Part of me felt inadequate, for I felt like I had not grown at all since school, but then I remembered where exactly Draco Malfoy had started out, and I didn’t feel so bad anymore. There really was no getting worse than baby first year Malfoy.

“I can hear your plebian insults all the way over here, you know.”

“Good,” I replied just as airily, “I’m sure you don’t get enough of those at home. Who else is going to control your giant ego?”

To my surprise, he smiled. “Astoria will run you out of a job, Potter.”

“Greengrass’ younger sister?” I asked. “Wow. Congratulations?”

He inclined his head, and that with the slight furrow of his brow told me all I needed to know.

“Congratulations,” I said, this time with all the solemnity befitting a funeral.

In a rare display of humanity, Malfoy shrugged. “We will learn to love, just as my mother did my father. She is certainly not the worst of the lot.”

“Not Pansy,” I remarked.

“Not Pansy,” he agreed.

With caution more befitting Tom than I, I asked, “Is that why you’re talking to me now?” I believed it a valid question. He hadn’t spoken more than a greeting to me the last time I came.

“As subtle as a train wreck. It’s an improvement, at least—seems your soulmate’s done you _some_ good.”

I smiled and tried to make it as least lovesick as possible; in front of Malfoy at least I wanted to preserve some essence of nonchalance. He brought the pettiness back out of me—something about a Gryffindor and his inability to bow to a Slytherin. “We’re making it work.”

We were silent for a moment, simply overlooking the gardens below. Malfoy manor was indeed expansive. I tried to run through the maze garden with my eyes, failing when the angle cut off the pathways further out. There were white peacocks lazing about on the perimeter, so I followed those instead and pretended they were the most fascinating creatures in the world. Malfoy needed time. I could wait.

“We’re getting married in the spring,” he finally announced.

“Cool. Am I invited?”

“I wouldn’t want you at my wedding even if you begged, Potter.”

I grinned. “Smart. I’d probably ruin it for you.” False, of course; I had more respect for him than that. Still, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

He waited another beat before saying, “I would’ve disagreed, back in Hogwarts.”

He caught me entirely off-guard, but I should’ve seen that coming from a mile away. Perhaps it was the way he said it—how he led into it first by mentioning his wedding, how he would be marrying a woman for blood and prestige and family…how alternatively, I had been lucky enough to meet my soulmate, and had been even luckier to pursue a relationship with him regardless of external circumstances.

It was either the worst or best setup I’d heard in my entire life, and I wanted to laugh because of course it would be.

“It wouldn’t have worked out,” we both said in unison. We weren’t even looking at each other, but seeker-to-seeker, childhood-enemy-to-childhood-enemy, our thoughts were one.

This time, I did laugh. He smiled, too—or so I thought; it might’ve just been my imagination.

“I always knew you’d end up with a Slytherin,” Malfoy said. “They’re your type.”

“What about Ginny? Cho?”

“Her Bat-Bogey Hex was foul as any. And do I even have to say it—Quidditch. For both of them.”

I considered making a joke about that. Instead, I said, “True. Guess I ended up with the Slytherin-est of them all,” and left it at that. We stood there for a while more in that lax silence, a completely different atmosphere than back indoors. I appreciated it, even if my comfort was not part of his consideration when he called me out.

“Harry,” Malfoy began. I turned to him and found his expression sobering. “I know sometimes you can act like a confused Slytherin, but there’s a reason you didn’t end up in our house.”

I swallowed. Part of me wanted to tell him that I’d asked the Sorting Hat for that, while the other half understood exactly what he’d meant.

“So that’s why…I’m telling you to be careful,” he said, licking his lips. “Word says that there’s something’s coming. Something big.”

“And I’m in the wrong circle?” I asked weakly.

There was no humor in his gaze. “If things explode, none of us are in the right circle. _Britain_ isn’t in the right circle.”

“You can’t tell me what it is, can you?”

“Not even I know,” he replied. “And what I have points to nothing definite. Maybe Riddle would know more—I don’t know. It’s up to you to ask him, but you didn’t hear anything from me.”

I nodded. “Thank you,” I said, trying my hardest to sound as sincere as I felt.

Malfoy nodded back. “Be careful, Potter. I wouldn’t want to be scraping your corpse off of Diagon Alley’s cobblestones.” And then he left, without even giving me the chance to snark right back. I had the perfect line for it, too—something about how flattered I was that he cared enough to get his hands dirty. It was just as well; perhaps that would’ve been ill-timed considering the circumstances.

I knew he would protect his own. I was not one of those—his warning to me, completely unconditional and out of the goodness of his heart, maybe, was as generous as he’d get. That did not disturb me in any way whatsoever—Malfoy was Malfoy. I understood the gravity of this potential situation the second he used my first name.

In the end, as I stood there, I decided I wouldn’t ask Tom—not yet. There was no malicious intent behind that withholding of information; I simply did not feel it was the right time to mention. After all, why did Malfoy warn _me_ instead of him? It was possible he knew me better, possible his father was already warning him, possible that the information came from Tom or possible that it applied to me more than him. I didn’t know. Whatever the case may be, I did not yet feel compelled to say anything.

So, I returned to the ball.

There might’ve been other interactions there that were just as significant to the war’s prelude as the one Draco and I shared, but I can’t recall any. That was the last of it, and nothing else Tom did foreshadowed his future actions to me.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Well, that’s it. I’d say I hoped that answered your question, but from the look on your faces, I see that it didn’t. But what else do you expect me to say? Tom is dead. Does it really matter what he was thinking before he died—whether he knew about the war’s arrival or not?

“Think about what you’re asking me. Think about it _carefully_. I was closest to him, yes; we lived together, ate meals with one another, thought about binding our lives together. I bear his mark on my hand, as he had mine on his, but it’s cold now. If he was this dark lord that you speak of, wouldn’t it still be warm?

“You want to know this dark lord’s intentions. You want to pick apart his brain and see if he’s a threat to you, a threat to Britain. I know. I can respect that. What I cannot respect is your desecration of my soulmate’s memory—you think you can just sit me down and say to me, ‘ _We have reason to expect the late Mr. Tom Riddle is the Dark Lord Voldemort. As his soulmate, tell us everything you know about his thoughts on the war and his ensuing disappearance. Oh, and bonus points if you happen to know his top five weaknesses’_? You expect me to have the answer to that?

“I mourned him. You were not at his funeral. You did not have to see his empty grave, his cold tombstone—as cold as the assets report I was invited to Gringotts to read, as cold as his will, without voice, one line—‘ _All to my soulmate, Mr. Harry James Potter’_. You saw none of that.

“And when his name was blazoned on _The Prophet_ ’s front page with a sham of a report by Rita Skeeter— _FAMOUS AUTHOR TOM RIDDLE: MURDERED?—_ not three days after I had felt my mark chill for the first time in all my then twenty-five years, _you_ were silent. _You_ made no protest of that slanderous article, not even in the smallest pittance of compassion for your once student.

“Now, three years later, with Grindelwald knocking at our door and a mysterious dark lord risen from Great Britain’s very own womb, I sit here— _you_ captured me and sat me here, then told me my soulmate is in fact not dead, and now you’re forcing me to dig up old ghosts in order to sate your own curiosity, never mind the fact that you’re basically telling me Tom never once thought or cared about letting me know he was alive and well, _if_ in fact you’re right and not delusional, _which_ I sincerely doubt.

“I don’t think I can name a more offensive turn of events if I tried.

“Look, I’m tired. Of living, of seeing your faces, of hearing Voldemort’s name in the same sentence as Tom’s. I answered your question under Veritaserum, and if you didn’t get the answer you wanted, then you might want to rethink your logic a little.

“And don’t even think about trying to verify through Legilimency again. It’ll be even uglier than the last time.”

Harry takes a deep breath. That had taken more out of him than he thought it would, but like hell he would let _them_ see that.

“I assure you, Mr. Potter, we are well aware of Tom’s skill in the art of the mind,” says Dumbledore. In Harry’s memories, he recalled his once Headmaster as a jolly old man, spry for his age, with oddly colored robes and a terrible sweet tooth.

This Dumbledore is little like that man. He sits world-weary, a noticeable hunch in his shoulders, looking as if he has not slept for many days. The dark rings beneath his eyes looks like a new batch of bruises coming in, and even his glasses are slightly off-kilter. Whether he notices or not, he makes no move to fix them, and that final detail to his unkempt experience is like the nail in the proverbial coffin.

Harry cannot stay angry with him. He pities him, like he pities himself, and can just nearly taste the sympathy on the tip of his tongue, but the bindings around his hands and legs stop him from saying any words of comfort.

So instead, he turns to Severus Snape, his old Potions professor, who he had never quite liked and who had never quite liked him, either.

“Done with your interrogation now?” Harry asks.

Snape stays quiet for a moment. Predictably, Harry wants to punch him the second he starts to speak.

“If there is anyone in the world who would not trust their soulmate, it _would_ be Riddle.”

Dumbledore strokes his beard. “Ah, yes, but I figured…at the very least… He seemed as if he had changed from his old ways. And that he had taken the time to shield young Mr. Potter’s mind—I had thought… Ah, but you may be onto something, Severus; it could all very well be a red herring.”

Harry wants to punch him, too.

“I’m right here,” he says. “Since you think my soulmate is the Dark Lord, you’re not worried that he might be watching through my eyes? Listening through my ears? Saving my memories for a later viewing time?”

They pause and look back over to him.

Grudgingly, Snape says, “He does have a point.”

Dumbledore, on the other hand, continues to observe him curiously. It’s unnerving how those eyes look now—they’re not the same friendliness that Harry had grown accustomed to at Hogwarts. No, this was war hero Dumbledore, he who had slain the previous dark lord—or had presumed to have slain, considering that said dark lord is currently rampaging through Europe again.

But then there’s another one besides Grindelwald, here in Britain, and his ulterior motives are a complete mystery.

…Harry doesn’t like thinking about it.

“No,” Dumbledore says, “I don’t think he is. You wouldn’t have said it if he was.”

“And if I didn’t know?”

Dumbledore straightens up. “We will not torture you, Mr. Potter. We do not intend to harm you.”

Some of that is true. The Veritaserum dose they had given him was carefully within safety measures and not a drop more, even when he had begun to go over the time limit. Bless small mercies. Sometimes the Gryffindor bluff pays off.

“And if I didn’t know?” Harry repeats. “If he has as much of a strong control over my mind as you think he does, how do I know anything? How can _I_ , personally, know the distinction between fact or fiction?”

Dumbledore sighs. “I know what you are trying to do, Mr. Potter. I am quite clear on your opinion of your soulmate, that you believe he can do no wrong, and certainly not become a dark lord. However, we know for a fact that Tom _is_ —”

Harry cuts him off. “I’m tired,” he says. “I don’t know anything.”

Snape is the one who sighs this time. “Leave the boy alone, Albus. This is the pointless. Maybe once the war comes to Britain and he can no longer hide behind his silly little delusions, he’ll tell us what we want to know.”

Harry would certainly do no such thing, but he stays quiet this time. They leave. Fifteen minutes later, someone comes to untie him from his chair and bring him back to his room. It’s a surprisingly nice room for a prisoner, but his wand is pointedly missing, and the careful selection of books and parchment he would’ve had little to no interest in touching just goes to show how barren it is.

No wand, no Hedwig, no broom, no friends. The door, he knows, is locked.

Harry falls back onto the bed and sighs. He places his hand over his forehead, the hard crystal of his mark rubbing against the skin there. It’s cold.

No Tom. No Tom ever again.

Harry rolls over. With a fact like that, there is no need to torture him. His dreams will do it for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	2. Chapter 2

_I lied. There was one more moment where I suspected you’d leave me._

 

 

* * *

 

 

That year, our anniversary fell on a Tuesday.

—Not that we were married or anything; it was our anniversary of meeting each other. I liked the idea of having something to commemorate with Tom, all our own. It felt personal. Intimate. Tom was not a naturally open person to begin with, and so I quickly figured out the best way to get to know him was to share something with him.

Our anniversary fell on a Tuesday. It was written right on my calendar in bold, capitalized, red ink.

That particular day was a Friday. And that was exactly why I knew that this gift wasn’t to fulfill any specific holiday requirement or tradition. The closest was Christmas, or Yule, but it was too early to start wrapping gifts, never mind begin to hand them out.

But there we were. Tom and I.

I picked up the box, almost scared that my touch would cause it to disintegrate and I would never see it again. It was not overly large or anticipatorily small, but I hesitated to shake it. Instead, the box sat nicely in my lap, no bigger than a book.

The minimalistic wrapping paper was done meticulously—not one fold was out of place, the amount of tape perfect and precise. The ribbon was a beautiful striped mix of deep green and red, and it was big and full like out of a drawing in a children’s book.

“Can I open it?” I asked.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” Tom told me. On the outside, his posture was relaxed and casual. Nonchalant, especially as he rested a cheek upon his hand.

He stood so far away, leaning against the window sill, but I was used to the abrupt distance by now. Tom did that sometimes, and when I asked about it, he had said that it was all the better to admire me with. Closer for my expressions, farther to encompass the entire view. He didn’t want to miss a single detail.

I had flushed and pulled him closer, just then so I might kiss him. Then I allowed him his distance, and it would be a lie if I said I didn’t preen a little.

 _Now_ , it was the space I needed to reverently pull one of the ribbon’s tails and begin the slow process of unwrapping the package. I had always liked the feel of wrapping paper, and I couldn’t stand to see it in shreds afterwards. Instead, I carefully pulled away the tape and reversed the steps the gift wrapper had took, wanting to preserve as much of the paper as I could.

Naturally, there was a box. But it was a much finer box than I had expected. Along the dark, carved wood was green and red metal wirework lain about the grooves, and they curled into an elegant but abstract design on the lid.

I undid the clasp.

There was a wooden cylinder inside, carved with intricate details I had to squint to take in. I was almost afraid to pick it up, but in the end, curiosity won out—I held it between my fingers and rolled it around, following the paths of the curling waves and spiraling clouds. There was a mermaid resting upon the rocks, her lovelorn gaze searching the skies, and directly in her line of vision was an owl, cradling away the moon.

I half expected it to move, but the image stayed still—almost muggle.

On one end of the tube was a hole I could look through, and on the other end was another twisting section that I could turn whichever way. It was stoppered with glass, and I could see a wide array of colored shards behind it. They twinkled like teardrops.

“A kaleidoscope?”

Tom hummed. I tore my gaze away to look at him. He was watching me, of course, with the self-satisfied expression of someone who had done something worthy of accolade, or at the very least, a bit of praise.

I recognized the wood. Yew and holly.

“It’s beautiful,” I said first. Then, “This was what you were working on?”

“Indeed,” he said. “Consider it a…prototype, if you will. It’s the only one of its kind in the entire world.”

I instantly loved it. Something Tom had made especially for me? This little kaleidoscope was worth more than all the galleons in my Gringotts vault.

I stroked my thumb over the owl and could feel its every feather. “What does it do?” I asked, because Tom wasn’t the type to stay in the realm of the ordinary.

He smiled. “It shows you the truth,” he said, quite simply.

That didn’t tell me much of anything. So, to try it out myself, I held it up to my eye and looked through. The colors were striking and vivid; befitting of one of Tom’s creations, I thought. I spun the end cap and watched the shapes change.

“Easier on the eyes than most people say it is,” I remarked.

Tom made a noise of acknowledgement. He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Do you like it?”

I set it down and smiled at him. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I told him honestly. “Thank you.”

He nodded as if that was only par for the course, but I saw the cut of his shoulders ease, and when he finally approached, he moved as a man who had feasted well for his eyes, and now desired drink for his lips.

I tilted my head up and obliged, and he was open and willing to show me exactly how pleased he was.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_You marked more than just my hand._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first week without Tom was hell.

We lived together. We shared the same spaces. More than roommates, or housemates, at that point in time, I liked to think we were genuinely there— _soulmates_. We had been soulmates then, with each of us extensions of the other. And suddenly being without him, suddenly knowing I would never be with him again…

That was more than just losing a limb or two. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest, sliced clean in two, and only half had been stuffed back into the gaping wound. No one cared to give me stitches; _I_ didn’t care to ask for them. The hole was left there, uncared for and rapidly growing infected. But unlike sickness, there wasn’t a potion or spell in the world that could cure it. The only option was to leave it to fester.

Somehow, I was still expected to go on living after the experience. For that first week, it was like I forgot how to.

Eventually, Hermione and Ron came by again, and instead of leaving when the house-elves cited my lethargy, they stayed.

“Harry, this isn’t healthy.”

That was Hermione. She drew open the curtains, letting the light in for the first time in days.

Ron was a little more fazed by the state of the room. “What happened?” he asked, turning this way and that. He took in the opened drawers, the scattered clothing, the books and papers strewn haphazard over every surface available. The only clean space was the shelves, and that was only because nearly everything that was in them was now somewhere else in the room.

“Treasure hunting,” I said, still motionless on the bed.

Hermione walked over and smoothed her hand across the covers. “Oh Harry,” she whispered. “Is—?”

“I told them not to touch anything,” I said. “They could’ve—because maybe there’s—maybe I’ve—”

She shook her head and stroked mine, much like a mother might her child. “Oh, Harry,” she whispered again. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I could not make head nor tails of her apology, so I chose to ignore it. Ron moved over and sat down beside her. With their combined weight, the king-sized bed didn’t feel so big anymore. I curled until I was lying against them both, legs against Ron’s back, head tucked against Hermione’s.

We were silent for a moment.

“We didn’t know him as well as you did, but we could help you search…? If you want,” Ron offered.

I considered it, but just the thought of getting up again was nearly too much to handle. Everything felt too heavy and not worth the effort. Not when I had already tried, and not when I had already failed.

I shook my head.

Hermione squeezed my shoulder. “That’s okay,” she said. “We’ll be here if you ever do. He—he really loved you, Harry. I’m sure there’s got to be _something_.”

At this point, I wasn’t sure if I agreed with her or not.

“We’ll find out what happened, yeah?” said Ron. “We’ll—we’ll find _him_.”

His body, he meant. And the reality of that—that at best there would be a body, at worst there would be nothing—was just another nail in the coffin. If it wasn’t for my soul mark, Tom Riddle would’ve simply been declared missing. If it wasn’t for my soul mark, maybe no one would’ve even realized he was gone.

It was sort of like dropping glass. In the moment between having it slip from my fingers to right before it shattered against the floor, I logically knew what had happened, and I logically knew what _would_ happen if the natural series of events remained undisturbed. But despite that, somehow, I still felt the suspense and vulnerability that came with freefalling, as if I didn’t know enough and would never know enough until that glass was in splinters on the floor.

I did not know whether I breathed in air or smoke. The smallest dust particle could’ve split my skin open, and I would’ve been content to let it bleed.

“I want—”

I choked.

“I know,” Hermione said, and I thought she might burst into tears right then and there. “I know. Oh Harry, _I know_.”

“Want—” I gasped, “ _want_ —”

“It’s okay to cry, mate,” Ron murmured. “We’re here. We’ve got you.”

“Tom,” I said, whispering his name like a benediction. And then I said again, “Tom,” like a beggar on the streets who had steadily been drained of all faith in human kindness and decency.

Hermione fell over me then, holding me the best she could. “It’s going to be okay, Harry,” she said, and I could not believe her, even when she said again, “It’s going to be okay.”

I shook my head over and over, repeating Tom’s name like I was learning _accio_ for the very first time. What intonation would bring him back to me, at what angle did I need to flick my wand and say the magic words—

“It’s okay. It’s okay. _It’s okay_.”

I pressed my mark into their warm hands, and they griped it like they believed it would bring him back for me. It wouldn’t. I knew it wouldn’t, but still, voice cracking, I called—

“ _Tom_ …”

 

…

 

We cleaned up together.

I still wouldn’t let the house-elves touch anything, for which they probably disdained me considering the size of the house and the size of the mess I made, but we managed. It helped that they didn’t particularly like Hermione, who still on occasion would frown to herself when she saw them.

It was moments like those that brought me back to the present, if only slightly. I still felt listless, aged and brittle like my bones were pumice, but I managed.

The last thing I found in my wreckage was the box Tom had gifted me just before his disappearance. I picked it up and brushed it off, remembering how happy I had been to receive it and all of Tom’s affections. It seemed like an eon had passed since then.

I lifted the lid, and inside, undamaged, was the holly and yew kaleidoscope. For a brief moment, the wood made me think _work_ , but the little wand shop I owned rarely saw any customers anyway, and I didn’t think Knockturn Alley would have missed me by much either.

I nearly laughed. The thought of something so normal, so ordinary as my failure of a career was, for some reason, hysterical in the wake of tragedy. And with that realization, I found I could no longer care about it. What was the point of anything now? What reason did I have to vie for something so empty as success?

I picked up the kaleidoscope and, hands shaking, held it to my eye. The colors were as beautiful as the day I first saw them, and that was the problem.

I was almost disappointed. This was the last thing Tom had given me, the most likely to hold some hidden meaning, but it had not changed one bit. I lowered it, and clutched it in my hands.

The last thing…

Why I pocketed it, I did not know. But from then on, I carried the kaleidoscope with me everywhere. It did not warm my mark, or heal the gaping hole in my chest, but it was a token of Tom’s, and it fit easily on my person, and no one questioned it whenever I pulled it out and toyed with it. Those things alone made it perfect.

And maybe, I thought, maybe if I looked through it enough, I would see the reason why he gave it to me.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_If we had more time together, where could we have gone?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You're a really good teacher."

I distinctly recalled telling Tom this often; being that we lived together, and our age difference was so far apart, he had many things to teach me, and I had many things to learn from him. The difficult part was doing so in a way that was both unobtrusive to our relationship. I didn't want to make a fool of myself, nor did I want to frustrate him with my inadequacies.

Fortunately, much of that fear puttered off when I realized Tom was, in actuality, a rather good teacher.

"It's nothing," he said, but he looked pleased all the same. "I wanted to be a Hogwarts professor, once."

"What?"

I could see _personal instructor_ , or _home tutor_ , sort of, but professor? I tried to imagine Tom at the front of a classroom, lecturing to a full house of students. It was hard not to blush, and for a moment, I startled myself with the direction that had gone in. Tom was attractive at all times—well, when he wasn't being a jerk—but _professor_. _Professor Riddle_...

Tom was laughing at me.

I shoved his shoulder. "Shush," I grumbled. "Anyway, what happened with that?"

Tom hummed. He pulled me closer, resting his chin upon my head. "Ah, yes. I was rejected."

"...Rejected."

"Handily so. I'm unsure of whether you noticed, but Dumbledore doesn't quite like me."

I tried to turn around to stare at him, but the weight of his head kept me in place. That didn't—well, obviously Dumbledore didn't like him. He didn't have to be so dry about it; I knew that. Though their paths didn't cross often, I could extrapolate from what I knew.

Take Slughorn, for example. Slughorn always raved about Tom's popularity with his professors, but the one professor he never mentioned was Dumbledore, who I knew had been the Transfiguration professor during Tom's time.

(A rather sobering thought, to realize he was actually older than McGonagall.)

But that conspicuous avoidance bled into other things as well, like how when Tom's newest book had been published, he had received congratulations from everyone _but_ Dumbledore, and when anyone talked about anything related to Hogwarts administration in front of him, no one spoke of the headmaster, unless it was a harsh critique.

Since I couldn't stare at Tom, I settled for the wall.

"Why?"

Instead of answering immediately, Tom pressed a kiss to my head first, right where his chin had been resting. Then, he said, "Why do you think?"

I tried to come up with some Dumbledore-like response and failed. All I could figure was a worrisome variety of sweets and candies, the odd words he would always blurt at the beginning of next year's feast, and his usual tolerant smile as he meandered the halls and offered lemon drops to troubled students.

I didn't know what sort of origin story Tom had with him, either. I always just assumed their personalities didn't get along. Maybe Tom frustrated him as a student, or maybe Dumbledore had been a poor professor. Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalries did leak into the classrooms. Snape gave Slytherins more points, and while McGonagall was generally fair, she did have a softer spot for her lions when leeway could be made.

So, I told him honestly, "I don't know."

"He said," Tom said, "That I hadn't seen the world yet. That I should come back and try again after I did. I applied just after seventh year, and he didn't bother giving me a proper interview. So, I didn't bother applying again either."

I winced, and this time, I did succeed in turning around and holding him. He hummed, and let me do as I would within the confines of his arms.

"That sucks," I said.

"Oh, certainly. But the point he made did have merit in a way he probably didn't intend. I left Britain that same month and traveled all over Europe, and then when I was done with that, I went to Asia. Africa. The Americas. Everywhere I could, searching for—"

"For?" I pressed when he didn't continue.

His pause lasted just a moment longer, just long enough that I could taste the weight of what he would say next before he had even said them.

"First," he began, "Myself. My interests, to be precise. I wanted to learn more about magic, and Hogwarts had just been the beginning. But you know—you also know—what those interests entail."

"Soulmates, you mean," I said, and meant _me_.

"Yes," he said, so careful. "The soul, and its pairs...what people call 'soulmates'. I was in an unusual situation, and I used my unique perspective to its fullest in my studies."

He paused again, and I let him.

"I discovered that my—our—circumstances were not as much of a singularity as I had first assumed. As everyone had assumed. Small magical communities around the world had documented several cases of this, where one half of the pair would be born far, far before the other. Many did not survive the wait...and I was determined more than ever to be one of the few that did."

I held him tighter. All of this had happened before I had even been born. It was yet another reminder of all he had done for me, all he had done for us, before he had even known my name. Tom had lived the majority of his life waiting blind; he'd wandered to the corners of the earth knowing that, even if he found something, time was still beyond his power to manipulate.

He had tried to cure himself of blindness. He had tried to deduce what he would be waiting for, and how long he would be waiting.

54 years between my birth and Tom's. 18 more years of waiting before we had met.

This is what he had given up for me, and I was determined to give back to him just as much.

“But you have me now,” I said.

I could not see him smile against me, but I could feel it pressed against the crown of my head.

“Yes. Now, I have you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_What life could we have made?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Tom fell ill, I lived forty-eight hours in sleepless fear.

Wizards didn’t quite catch the same sicknesses as muggles. They had their own set, most which could be cured by a potion or two and some rest. As long as their magic stayed strong, they were generally healthy and could recover from much. But that was in normal situations, and Tom encountered the _abnormal_ more than not.

I did not know quite what happened. He had come back from a trip to Egypt looking fatigued, and I had ushered him into bed. Next I woke, it was to his burning forehead pressed against mine, and that was the start of it.

Too nervous to move him, I had called over a mediwizard for a diagnosis.

“A nasty curse,” they had said, and I remember my blood freezing over. “From Egypt, you say? I haven’t seen anything like it before—”

I called Bill next.

However, by the time he came, Tom was at least awake. They spoke in low tones for a while. I only understood about half of what they said, either because the topic was too esoteric or I had worried myself into distraction. Probably both, in retrospect. I remember feeling useless, and angry that I was useless, but also the quiet sort of dread that usually accompanied life-threatening uncertainty.

Bill soon left after giving me a pat on the shoulder. Tom had the audacity to smile and say, “Really, Harry? There’s no need for worry. It’s only a mild fever; nothing more.”

I nearly broke his hand with how hard I clutched it. “Tom, you’re _burning_.”

He waved my concern away. “Fetch me my bag, would you? I believed I had settled this curse, but it seems to be more persistent than I anticipated. Hm…”

He furrowed his brow. I paused, thinking he would conclude with some profound enlightenment, or at least give me a list of what he needed.

Instead, he said, “A little interesting.”

I dropped his hand. “Unbelievable,” I muttered, but I still went to retrieve his things.

Upon my return, he downed several potions in quick succession, had me cast an odd diagnosis spell on him, and after analyzing the results, ordered me to owl his preferred ingredients supplier for a few more things. I did not let him see how I wrote; my hand trembled, and I had to fetch a new page of parchment when the ink blots bordered unacceptable.

His manner was ordinary, but his countenance was noticeably ill. I did not delay, and attended to him as quickly and thoroughly as I could.

Later, when the emergency errands had been taken care of and all we needed to do was wait, I sat beside him, a bucket at my own side for wetting the towel on his forehead. I kept but one candle lit; a thin, dying stick that I knew would not hurt his eyes or bother him as he rested.

Tom was not sleeping, though I wished he was. I could feel his magic thrumming beneath his skin, fortifying himself as it slowly unwound the curse’s chokehold. Our soul marks rubbed together as I held his hand, offering my meager stores if he so wished to use it.

Eventually, he opened his eyes, though by no more than half. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so worried,” he said. The dismal lighting made the red of his irises appear darker than they usually were—softer.

I stared at him, but I could not muster up enough indignation to get angry.

“Not like I can help it,” I said to him. “When you’re better, I’ll put this in a pensieve and force you to watch it. Maybe then you’ll understand where I’m coming from.”

He made a faint, sleepy sigh, and my heart ached at the sound.

“I don’t dislike it,” he said. “It simply…surprised me.”

Baffled, I said, “What? Why?”

“It’s…” He paused. “The breadth, the span…you overflow with it. I did not know such a small emotion could reach such depths.”

I took a deep, shaky breath, and unable to hold myself back, leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. I hoped it was sweeter than it was wet.

“It can,” I told him softly. “It does. We use them often, these words—worry, concern, nervousness, apprehension—but they are as limitless as love, care, devotion, ardor. If I were on this bed instead, I know you would worry for me. We’re fortunate that I’m not.”

He smiled. “So, your bedside manner is also wholly unconditional?”

I flushed, joyous. “Not,” I said. “The condition _is,_ that you get better the nicer I treat you.”

“Rather simple, isn’t it?”

I raised our linked hands and pressed a kiss to his soul mark, the heat of the crystal as warm as my heart. “Well, what did you expect? I’m a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_…If a bird and a fish were to fall in love…_

 

 

* * *

 

 

I first met Tom when I was eighteen, apprenticing at Ollivanders.

I had already been under Ollivander’s guidance for several months at the time; he had scouted me just out of Hogwarts, and I had a favorable impression of him for his patience with me when I was eleven. Needless to say, I took the opportunity, and found my love of wand crafting.

Winter was just settling in. There was a chill in the air as I walked down the sparser streets of Diagon Alley. It was too early for customers to be out and about; shops were just opening, stalls were just setting up, and the delicate layer of frost coating the cobblestones had yet to be cleaned with a quick sweeping spell. I myself was bundled in a scarf and thick coat that would be shed the moment I walked into the shop, but for now, they were as necessary as the soles on my shoes.

And I would’ve happily torn those soles right off if it meant I had an excuse to leave the shop as quickly as I entered. But the bell had already chimed, the two arguing men in the back abruptly cut off, and I had to go through the very awkward process of greeting my boss as if I hadn’t just heard him shout, “I would rather bear a child with Albus Dumbledore than tell you where he is!”

They both rushed out from the back shelves.

Ollivander coughed.

“Harry,” he said, looking distinctly like he wished to redo the last five seconds of his life, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Ollivander,” I said.

Then, Ollivander turned back to who I later would learn to be Tom. “I would see you out, Mr. Riddle, but I think we both rather I spare your dignity and let you leave on your own.”

It was only then that I dared to look at him, and he dared to look at me. No—that wasn’t exactly what happened. When I saw him then, he was simply a handsome stranger who quite frankly looked like he would rather see my boss skewered on a stake than leave. And by handsome, I _do_ mean exactly that—it was difficult to take my eyes off of him. I had never seen anyone so attractive in my entire life.

(Not that I would go on to tell him that. It was better to leave his ego well alone under most circumstances.)

And then his face contorted, and in the odd, hazy light of the shop, I thought I saw his eyes flash a curious shade of red. Curious, because I had had dreams made entirely of that red—had seen it upon waking every day of my life, had pressed my cheek to it every night before I went to bed.

My hand burned. I clutched it momentarily, the palm of my other hand pressing so hard, so hot against my soul mark that it was almost like a branding iron. And then he—Mr. Riddle, I knew him as—turned in the direction of the door, exactly where I was standing, and stared.

His eyes were dark. Not the garnet of my hand, not the beading shade of blood swiped against skin. My mark was unnatural, I knew. While others had shades of brown and blue, the occasional green and sometimes grey, mine was red. Not a strange shade of bronze, or deep brown, but pure red—textbook, children’s red. I had gone on to believe I would never have a soulmate for that exact reason.

I thought, my eyes must be playing a trick on me.

I thought, it was all my imagination. It’s dark brown at best. Know your colors, Potter, this is primary school material.

He took a step forward. Struck dumb as I was, I was stupid, and didn’t move aside. Ollivander took a glance between us, frowned, and then said, “Come in, Harry. There’s much to do today.”

I didn’t hear him. Neither, I think, did Tom.

“What’s your name?” he asked me, when we were properly face to face.

I nearly answered, but Ollivander was faster.

“There’s no need to harass my apprentice, Mr. Riddle,” he said. “He will not tell you the information you seek. Now, _out_.”

Only my respect for Ollivander and my desire to keep my job stopped me from blurting out the time I got off of work. I stepped aside, then, cleared the path to his exit; he would leave, and I would spend the day scolding my subconscious for desiring such a handsome man as my soulmate. Maybe even for desiring a soulmate to begin with.

He stared at me for a moment longer, as if he actually expected me to say something in front of my less-than-pleased boss. When I didn’t, he finally tore his gaze away and left, the doorbell ringing behind him. I stared after him longer than what was considered proper.

Finally, I too looked away.

“Good morning, Mr. Ollivander,” I said, and peeled off my scarf and coat.

“Good morning, Harry,” he said to me. “Got a new shipment of unicorn hairs today. Help me sort them, won’t you?”

“Yes sir,” I said, and the morning restarted as per usual. But inwardly, I couldn’t help but feel like I had lost something extremely precious, like my ship back home had sailed away and I had arrived to an empty harbor, despite the fact that this land was all I had ever known.

 

…

 

The day dragged on. Though I worked with the same efficiency as I usually bore, I was in a melancholic mood the entire time, even through my breaks and lunch. Dealing with customers induced a temporary lapse, but the moment I was alone again, the feeling returned.

It itched at me inside, and it didn’t help that my soul mark was perpetually warm as well. Normally it was no hotter than my normal temperature, save that brief scorch in the morning during my first encounter with the Mr. Riddle, but now it was like a stone that had been lazing in the sun all day, heated and ever attracting.

Well, it was conveniently timed for winter, I thought. I was still quite stubborn in denying the proof before my very eyes—I’d spent too much time in disbelief, and it would take more than common sense to shake me.

My hours done, I bid farewell to Ollivander, shrugged on my coat, and wound my woolen scarf back around my neck. The bell’s chime was glued into my mind by now, sealed there with wax like a haphazard closing to my day. It was like a toggle going off above my head. Going in, on. Going out, off.

But maybe something had gone wrong with the process that day, because the second I took a step outside, I froze. Sitting on a bench across the street while reading a book was Mr. Riddle, monopolizing his own little bubble of space as people passed by completely unaware.

Note: I didn’t recall there being a bench there in all my eight years of shopping in Diagon Alley, and I didn’t think it was something that would be installed there without a reason. In fact, it looked remarkably out of place, positioned in the place between two shops right up against the wall.

It should’ve been suspicious.

I walked over anyway, traversing the traffic without thinking much of the people I elbowed past or the parties I had to maneuver between. It all seemed so secondary; all I knew was that I had to speak to him, to continue the _what could’ve been_ had our conversation this morning went on.

The minute I stepped into his bubble of space, he looked up.

“Hi,” I said, and immediately felt a little foolish. He seemed so composed, and here I was, an out-of-breath mess.

“Hello,” he said. It must’ve been something in the air that tangled our gazes together, because I couldn’t stop looking at him and he couldn’t stop looking at me. When he closed his book and set it aside, he didn’t even stop to mark the page he was on.

Hermione _always_ stopped to mark her page. When Hagrid’s runespoors had gotten loose and there had been a schoolwide evacuation, she had stopped to mark her page. The first time Ron had asked her out, she had leapt up and hugged him—but not before stopping to mark her page. Before she had punched Draco Malfoy in the face for calling her a mudblood, the first thing she did was mark her page.

I didn’t fall in love with Tom at first sight, but I’d be lying if I said I had no clue that it was going to happen at some point.

“I’m Harry,” I said, “Um, Potter.”

He stood and held a gloved hand out to me. “Tom Riddle.”

I took it, gingerly, and felt my soul mark scorch again. I couldn’t help but glance towards the hand at his side—his right. It would be where his own soul mark was…if we were mated. But it was also gloved, and so I couldn’t tell.

My own was bare. The Dursleys had always made me cover it up—they thought it was another weird, freakish thing of mine, and it was a show of my own independence now that I could go barehanded. It was a decision I’d made when I first graduated, and though it had felt odd for the first couple of weeks—the looks, the stares, the whispers—it felt right. Freeing, that I could make this decision now and act on it.

I wasn’t sure if I was glad or not now, because Tom had also turned to look at my opposing hand, and I thought that this was the time that he would turn around and walk away—say, “Sorry, my mistake; not mine.”

Our hands parted a little awkwardly—mine too fast, his a little slow. But then he raised up his right hand and peeled away the glove, revealing a mark a shade of green that I only ever saw in mirrors.

This time, I was the one who extended my left hand—the hand with my mark—but instead of shaking it, he turned it over and ran his thumb across the surface. With the exception of myself, he was the first to touch it so intimately.

I was young. Inexperienced. I had only ever dated two girls in my life, both of which who had gone on to find their soulmates, and—big surprise to absolutely no one—that soulmate hadn’t been me.

I flushed. He pulled away, but instead of leaving, he sat down again and motioned to the space beside him—just enough for one other person.

What else could I do but sit?

“So,” he said, “Tell me about yourself,” and it was a little stilted, a little stiff, but not unkind.

I fumbled with the question, but eventually, I managed a, “I’m eighteen years old. I’m an apprentice at Ollivanders—” his only apprentice, actually, “—I like Quidditch. I was a Gryffindor in school, and—”

I stopped there, mostly because I couldn’t come up with something that didn’t sound childish in my head.

“I was a Slytherin,” he said. Inwardly, I couldn’t help but wince. “I’ll be turning…let’s see, seventy-two this year.”

Another jolt. I turned to stare up at him incredulously, but he continued on.

“I’m a researcher, and I write books in my spare time.”

I wondered if I ever saw his name in Flourish and Blotts before. Maybe Hermione had. “What do you research?” I asked, a little hesitant.

“Souls.”

My mind blanked. “Like…soulmates?”

He glanced at me, and it caught me off guard how I suddenly couldn’t tear my gaze away. Maybe that was why he hadn’t looked at me as he talked, because it was hard to focus on anything else.

“You could say so,” he said. “It certainly has been an area of interest of mine.”

My heart thudded in my chest. I didn’t know how to ask.

He asked for me. “Have you found your soulmate, Harry?”

“No,” I said. “H-have you? Tom?”

“I think I might have,” he said, and with the way he was looking at me, even I couldn’t misconstrue his meaning.

I wanted a chance. I didn’t know if I deserved one, but by Merlin did I _want_ one. Why, I couldn’t really say. Maybe it was to have someone to call my own. Maybe it was to experience this strange, fantastical world of a mated soul that so many had gushed and raved about. Or maybe it was because I lacked direction, and Tom’s appearance was life providing me with some.

All selfish reasons. All reasons so many others had used when referencing their first meeting with their soulmate, because they were never really pairs until they figured out how to snap against one another—how to make each other better, or sometimes, how to not make the other worse.

Or maybe I wanted this chance because I had never had someone wait for me before, and I was effortlessly charmed by that single, simple act.

It took mustering up all of my Gryffindor courage to say, “I change my mind.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I think I’ve found mine, too.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry wakes up to his mark burning a brand into his cheek.

That's all the warning he has before the door is being blown in, spells are flying overhead, and he's rolled over onto the floor using the bed frame as a shield. There's shouting in the background, beneath the sound of breaking and explosions, but he doesn't have time to focus on that.

He peeks around when there's a pause in the spell flurry. There are two men, each in uniform, dressed in the garb of Gellert Grindelwald's army. Harry can barely feel himself breathe. He waits as they come closer. Finally, when one is in range, he tackles him to the floor and steals his wand.

The other spins on him. Harry throws up a shield at the same time as his fist collides with the other one's jaw. It feels good to finally have a wand in his hand—it's not perfect, but wandmakers know a trick or two for getting an ill-fitting wand to work. Overall, it's not bad, and he's able to knock both of them out in no time.

The entire door is lying strewn across the floor, a sea of wood shards before his chance of freedom. _Now or never, Potter._

He picks himself up and grabs the other wand, tucking it into the waistband of his pants. Then he goes for a disillusionment spell, only because he has no desire to strip one of the bodies of their uniform and don it for himself. Tom's taught him well. Long gone are the days that Harry would just run out into the corridor to face off against a giant several times his size—a stupid decision at any age, he imagines.

To wizards trained in combat, his disillusionment spell won't keep them off his tail for long...but he hopes that they'll be too busy doing whatever they're here for to notice him. Harry's mind goes to Dumbledore, and Snape, but he hasn't seen either of them for a good week, so who even knows if they're here right now, honestly.

Harry props both bodies up away from the door. Then, he's out running down the hallway, hopefully going in the opposite direction of the battle.

...The problem is, there isn't just one 'battle'. It's obvious who's in Grindelwald's camp and who's not—he assumes the others are Dumbledore's—but they're skirmishing all over the place, which raises the question... Who is he supposed to take out?

On one hand, Grindelwald's army. That doesn't need an explanation. But on the other hand, Dumbledore _did_ imprison him here—but he's also supposed to be defending Britain _from_ Grindelwald—but would they capture him again if they knew he escaped—

Ah, Harry gives up. He stuns any stragglers he sees, and when he has the time, loots and breaks the wand of Grindelwald's men. One can never be too careful.

Though, he does wish for a map of the castle. It's like being a first year in Hogwarts all over again, except he knows for a fact that this castle is smaller. Eventually, Harry rounds a corner and immediately ducks behind again when he sees someone doing the exact same thing he is.

They don't seem to belong to either side. All of Dumbledore's men are obvious, because they aren't wearing anything to obscure themselves. Grindelwald's have hidden their faces, but their uniforms, and his symbol, are unmistakable. _This_ person is covered in a black cloak, and each movement they take is quick and efficient.

They go the other way, thank Merlin.

But it's inevitable that someone _does_ find him out, and it's just his luck that it's one of _Grindelwald's_ men. Harry runs, because he has no intention of taking on a one versus three. He can hear them hot on his heels, the sparks of spells landing just short of him crackling against the stone floors.

 _Stairs_. He has to be close now. Harry leaps over the rails, stumbles on the landing but at least he doesn't twist his ankle. There's still shouting behind him. Harry looks up and tries to scout his escape route, only to see—

There's at least five bodies strewn across the floor, all Grindelwald's men. Blood pools beneath them. There are craters in the ground and on the walls, scattered rubble of stone where a spell had missed. In the center of it all is something familiar: another one of those people cloaked in black, but this one is taller. One of the tallest men he's ever seen.

Harry presses himself against the staircase and tries to breathe as little as humanly possible.

His pursuers, however, were completely unaware of the situation they'd stumbled upon. They stop at the first few steps, frozen for a moment before they all aim their wands at the figure and cast a vicious snarl of killing curses. The figure easily sidesteps them and casts his own sickly spell of red. Harry hears the screams. He doesn't need to know what the next spell is, because their ensuing silence tells the tale equally well.

Dead.

The figure speaks. "If you want to escape, come with me."

Harry freezes. There's no one else here; how did they—

The figure shifts. He lifts his head, looking across the atrium to the other hallway entrance. "Grindelwald will be here soon."

He turns around. Harry can't see his face, but he knows he's looking directly at his hiding place.

"Come. Quickly."

There's no time to think. There's no time to second guess. He could be leaping out of a fire only to land in a proverbial frying pan, but, Harry thinks, but that's better than doing nothing.

The disillusionment spell falls. Harry walks out—runs—and as soon as he's in range, there's something cold and metallic being pushed into his hands as he feels the twisting pull of a portkey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (did someone ask for a prison break?)
> 
> It's my birthday tomorrow ^_^
> 
> Also, my artist for the Tomarry Big Bang 2k17 was [unobviousart](http://unobviousart.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! They recently posted their submission, so be sure to check it out [here](http://unobviousart.tumblr.com/post/165429131843/if-a-bird-and-a-fish-were-to-fall-in-love-where)!
> 
> Thank you all for your support <3


	3. Chapter 3

They arrive in a tent.

The first thing the figure says is, "The objective has been achieved. Call them back."

Immediately, the subordinate standing to the side bows and says, "Yes, my lord." Then, they exit, leaving Harry and his savior alone.

Harry takes the chance to look around. It’s very…clean, and orderly inside the tent. Clearly magical as well, because the inside is twice the size of the bedroom he’d been kept in, with a ceiling height no less than two giants’ worth. There’s a large desk off to the side with a map strewn across it, and various containers of storage space such as chests and cabinets sit along the walls.

He doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

The tall man turns around. Some sort of masking spell is still obscuring his face. To Harry, he asks, "Are you wounded anywhere?"

Well, he’s a bit scraped up, but really no worse for the—

" _Ow_ ," Harry hisses, instinctively clutching his left hand. He pulls away when he feels something wet there and looks down.

All around his soul mark crystal is blood, just starting to drip down his fingers. It’s still actively bleeding. He thinks there must’ve been a bad reaction with the portkey—it wouldn’t be the first time he’s had a less-than-stellar experience with magical transportation. 

For a moment, all he does is stare down at his mark, blinking stupidly. He even holds it up in front of his face, because even though he knows blood equals _not good_ , this has never happened to him before. It might’ve even been his imagination had it not hurt so much.

The man mutters something under his breath. He turns around and rummages through one of the drawers, fetching some supplies before he turns back to Harry.

Harry has no idea what’s happening. He’s still blank faced and staring when the man moves him over to a chair, sits him down, and then takes his hand and begins to clean the blood away. It’s…surprisingly gentle. Not something he had expected.

The hands are pale, and the fingers unnaturally long. They’re thin—like animal bone, he thinks—and remind him of the wood he uses to make his wands. They’re also bare, of both cloth and mark.

His own mark throbs.

The bandages are neat and soft.

"Thank you," Harry says, rather belatedly. "Who are you?"

He looks up. They’re close enough now that he can see directly into the void of the man’s hood, but it’s a faceless void—sort of like a dementors, except without the soul sucking aspect. He’s looking down at Harry, too, Harry realizes. Not just at his hand, but at him.

The man lets go of his hand and takes a step back. Harry’s grateful, since it means he doesn’t have to crane his neck so much to look at him.

"You haven’t guessed?"

"No clue," Harry says. "I haven’t much to go on, you see."

"You were escaping."

Harry nods. It’s not like it’s a secret. "I’m not sure how long they—"

"Two weeks," the man says. "It’s been two weeks."

Harry stares.

Slowly, the man reaches up and lowers his hood. Harry freezes. A chill runs down his spine. Perhaps he should’ve expected something more creature than human with how his hands were shaped, but it’s a little too late to realize that now.

The first impression he gets is _monster_. Patches of scales melded with skin run down the man’s face, and the inhuman structure is just on the edge of disturbing. He has slits for nostrils, sharply sunken cheeks, and two darkened spaces where his eyes rest. Harry’s first instinct is to run.

Then the man lifts his head, and their eyes catch.

Red. Red like Tom’s, when he wasn’t hiding them. Harry’d never really gotten the full story out of him—experiments in his youth gone wrong, Tom had said, and that had been it. He had thought Tom might’ve been embarrassed about it; a physical reminder of his failure, and one so noticeable at that? Harry wasn’t surprised he hid them away, if not to avoid the questions.

The only resemblance is the color. These are not Tom’s eyes. These aren’t even a human’s eyes—the appearance is distinctly reptilian. A black fissure in a sea of coagulating blood, emotionless and unblinking.

It isn’t—but—

It all comes back to that shade of red. Once Harry’s made the connection, he can't shake it off no matter how hard he tries.

"You're Voldemort," he says. "You're the new dark lord Dumbledore was talking about."

_The one who's supposedly my soulmate._

Voldemort tilts his head. Harry actually startles a little. They’d been staring at each other so intently, but out of the two of them, the only one noticeably breathing was Harry. Voldemort could’ve been a statue—a golem, a puppet, even—with the way his body seemed to lack the need to breathe. More accurately, it was probably something in his reptilian nature that was the root cause.

That was probably it, Harry thought. This dark lord walked on two legs, spoke the human language with a man’s voice and manner, but everything of his body was distinctly _inhuman_ , from his hairless head to his barren feet.

"I am," he says.

"Why did you save me?"

Voldemort is silent for a long time. Finally, he says, "I am in need of a wandmaker."

"…And you thought the owner of a failing wand shop in Knockturn Alley was a good choice?"

"A choice worth investigating," he says. "Why did Dumbledore imprison you?"

Harry clams up. He’s not going there. Maybe that’s why Voldemort asked him, too, because he doesn’t seem very intent on continuing that line of questioning. Actually, he doesn’t look intent on anything concerning Harry’s circumstances. The more Harry thinks about it, the more this dark lord seems less like a bloodthirsty tyrant and more like an overgrown pet lizard.

But he had been rather bloodthirsty, hadn’t he? Harry recalls the bodies lying in odd, broken angles at his feet. The dichotomy puts him on guard.

"Who knows. Maybe it was for my charming personality. Am I _your_ prisoner now, then?"

"If you are unwilling to stay, you are not bound here," says Voldemort, "But keep in mind: this is the safest place for you. Dumbledore cannot touch you here, I will not bind you. In exchange…"

He pulls a wand from his robe sleeve. Harry’s eyes are immediately drawn to it. He registers two things:

One, it’s an Ollivander wand. 12 and a quarter inches, blackthorn, dragon heartstring.

Two, Voldemort isn’t its master.

"That doesn’t suit you," he blurts out. It’s probably not a smart thing to say.

However, instead of reprimanding him, Voldemort merely says, "No, it doesn’t. But you can make one that does, can’t you?"

Oh, a job. This is something he’s more familiar with, though Merlin knows why Voldemort would want him instead of someone with a more solid reputation like Ollivander. Not many know the differences in their philosophies, which had branched off far enough that his master had encouraged him to open his own shop. But in order to not infringe upon his territory, Harry had opened one in Knockturn, and thus his usual clientele—whenever he got any—were mostly rather questionable.

"I’ll need material," Harry says.

"Done."

He squints. "That’s it? There’s no catch?"

"You’ll also be in charge of wand maintenance."

Harry waits.

"For the entire camp."

…Well, nothing in this world comes free. Harry wearily nods. He doesn’t know whether this’ll come back to bite him later, but—

It’s better to be busy than to let his mind roam. And if he can make himself a new wand in the process, then that as good as doubles his odds of escaping in case things turn less than savory.

"Deal."

 

 

* * *

 

 

…So, Voldemort was quite beyond my expectations. From Dumbledore’s descriptions, I had imagined him as an old king—powerful and ruthless, and wise enough to be considered a threat rather than a danger. I still did not know him well enough to say, but what I had seen so far subverted the previous results of my imagination. He was kind to me.

Kindness, I knew, had many levels and falsities, but if it was false, then that meant he had something to gain from me, and if it was true, then I had something to gain from him. Why else would he treat this obscure wandmaker so well? Both situations boded well for me.

I settled easily and dreamt.

I had never had the pleasure of fashioning my own wand before. I had never felt the need to. Especially when I learned than Tom and I shared brother wands, my reluctance to craft another for myself solidified and became as stout as an iron wall. So, I was one of the few wandmakers who used a wand of another’s making—unusual, and certainly cause for ridicule as I left Ollivander’s wings and began my own shop.

But now, I had no clue where my wand was. I did not know if they snapped it, burned it, stripped it bare and brittle—I did not know if it was in Dumbledore’s hands or another, and, needless to say, I could not take the risk to search for it, either.

This left me in a dilemma that Voldemort had, without comment or indication, remedied for me. His terms gave me unlimited access to wandcrafting ingredients, and so I could craft my own at my leisure, as long as I put _his_ in first priority. It was issueless, and I shouldn’t have had any problems with it.

…But I did.

I had been able to mourn Tom in questionable peace for three long years. Questionable, because there was the matter of Rita Skeeter, as well as the war I had grown increasingly aware of, though it had not yet beached Britain’s shores. But—Tom—

He was someone I both loathed and loved to think about. And he was gone—I knew this to be so. Now with my soul mark bundled under a layer of bandages, it was even clearer what direction the fates had ordained for me. Live, and let go.

I did not want to. I did not want to hide Tom’s memory away like a wound at risk of infection. I did not want to think of him and feel nothing at the thought. I did not want to make a new wand and sever the connection I had held so closely to my chest—the first, I thought, the very first thing that we had in common.

…But I needed a wand.

Well, as the saying goes, I chose to cross that bridge when I got to it. For now, I had a task to do, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t have a little goodwill stored up towards the Dark Lord, who took me away from that place. I might’ve been able to find my way out of there on my own, true, but he had taken all the risk out of it, and in doing so, I was willing to assist him in return.

A dark lord without a suitable wand had a marked disadvantage, after all, and if he intended to fight for Britain, I might as well do my part for our motherland…and give Dumbledore the proverbial middle finger while I was at it. From a safe distance, of course.

What would come after…well, I was still contemplating my options. _Tom_ was the one with the failsafes; I was on my own here.

That morning, I was brought to another tent that I was told would be my workshop. The materials were in good order, surprisingly. I had thought they would be carelessly placed anywhere there was space, but they were all properly stored in a manner befitting their content, and even organized and labeled using standard notation.

I smiled, though more for the sake of a neutral reaction than out of any true pleasure. This, I supposed, was one way to show sincerity. Either that, or Voldemort had earnestly been searching for a wandmaker for a while now. If he had one in the past, I could only wonder what happened to them. Wondered what had happened if the case occurred that they had displeased him.

Stilted, I explored and familiarized myself with this makeshift home away from home.

After about an hour had passed, the entrance to the tent opened and a figure stepped through. I turned around and was more than a little baffled to see Voldemort standing there, easy-as-you-please, as if he had the time to do such things like personally stop by his wandmaker’s tent before I had even started working.

 _Very_ sincere, I amended.

"Are your quarters to your liking?" he asked.

I blinked. "Which? Might you be asking after?"

"Both."

I truly did not know how to answer him. If it was my workstation, I could understand. A wand was a serious matter to a wizard. But my bedding? My accommodations? Did it matter if I was satisfied, especially because he said I had the freedom to leave if I so desired? Nothing lined up with his supposed intentions.

A dark lord unpredictable was not one I felt safe around. Then again, the ‘dark lord’ part might have something to do with it, as well.

"…Yes," I said slowly, "They’re…suitable."

Again, that unblinking, reptilian stare of his ensured I lost all my already pitiful finesse. The ensuing silence was palpable.

Finally, he asked, "Do you require anything more?"

I stared. "For what?"

"…My wand."

If I had a time turner then, I would not have hesitated to go back and ensure I did not wake up that morning. Maybe if I had been unconscious, I wouldn’t have been able to make a fool of myself. But lacking any instrument to manipulate time, I was stuck in the hole I had so boorishly dug.

"Oh, yes," I coughed, not impressing myself and probably not impressing him either, "I mean, no, no, I don’t need anything. This is fine. Perfect. Feels just like home."

He stared. Or at least, I thought he was. I didn’t know; I didn’t have the confidence to meet his eyes again. If there was anything in the world that said a wandmaker was incompetent, it was probably forgetting a job not twenty-four hours after it had been requested. I thought, if he chose to strike me down now, I would be hard-pressed to blame him.

Twenty-eight and I had the memory of an old man—no, a goldfish. I didn’t even forget! It was just…an absence of my mind that lasted for the duration of his question.

 _What_ an embarrassment.

"Did you, er, need anything? More?" If only I were some mindless thing, he wouldn’t have deigned to speak to me.

"As long as you’re comfortable," he said, which was odd for obvious reasons. Comfortable? In a camp? That I wasn’t sure I was prisoner in? Or comfortable to speaking to him, which was even stranger, because, well… _because_.

He continued. "It has been long since I last…stepped foot in a workshop. The exact details of the arrangements…are but vague recollections. If they suit you, all is well."

I was speechless again. Was he implying what I thought he was implying? Did he arrange this all himself? What? Was he truly the Dark Lord Voldemort, or was there something else going on here?

So surprised was I that I forgot all my prior embarrassment and looked up, just to make sure that was really him standing there. Hint: it was. I nearly gaped.

"It—yes, yes of course. I—um—it _does_. It does feel—like home to me. Thank you. You’re surprisingly generous." That last part was incredibly unnecessary. Another spike of foot-in-mouth syndrome, but I didn’t blame myself for that nearly as much as I had for my lapse in memory.

I thought I saw his mouth twitch, but I credited that to a trick of the mind. In reality, it was actually quite hard to miss a movement he made because he was usually so still. I saw what I saw, but nothing could convince me of the truth of it then.

"It is not wholly unconditional," he remarked, and I felt the burning of my face once more.

"As wholly unconditional as my bedside manner, then," I blurted, and was _this_ close to slapping myself.

"Is that so," he said, and tilted his head in that slight, animal-like manner again. "I will remember that, the next time I require a nurse."

I thought it odd. "So you’ll remember not to call for me?"

"Quite the opposite. So I remember to give you proper compensation."

" _Extremely_ sincere," I amended, _out loud_. Why was it that my blasted mouth suddenly couldn’t control itself? Honestly, I felt like it was an incredibly appealing option to scour the camp for a time turner the moment I was free.

He did not seem to take offense. "So you understand," he said, and with the raise of his chin, I caught a brief glimpse of a familiar arrogance. "Even better. I’ll leave you to your work."

Thank. Merlin.

I carefully bit my lip, hoping the pain was enough of a restraint to cease further embarrassment. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. The moment I was no longer in the presence of the esteemed Dark Lord Voldemort, I remembered I _did_ need something else from him: his magical signature.

As the order called for a custom wand, I needed either the wizard himself to choose a few resonating cores, or a magical signature to do it myself. Now, I had neither. And I had just told him I wouldn’t need anything else.

Could I run out and catch him before he left? But I recoiled from the mere thought of doing so. I was still too embarrassed of my previous fumbles; another attempt now would probably just add more fuel to the fire. No, best to put it off—this way, I could narrow down a few choices to make the next visit quick. The less available time I had to make a fool of myself, the better.

I looked around.

"Well, best get to it…"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Preparations took a day or two. It was like starting a new shop all over again. Eventually, I narrowed down four combinations I thought particularly strong, and had a good chance of resonating with a powerful, reptilian dark wizard:

Cockatrice feather and vine,

Basilisk fang and yew,

Chimaera heartstring and hornbeam, and

Phoenix feather and snakewood.

It would be all well and good if one of these were chosen, but I knew little of Voldemort, so I did not have very high expectations of resonance.

Just as I was wondering how I could contact him, the entrance to the tent once more yielded, and a figure cloaked in black stepped through. I knew instantly that it was not the Dark Lord; this one was not so tall, and the demeanor they carried themselves with was markedly different, though no worse nor no better.

"…Hello," I said, and remembering my other duties, continued on to say, "Here for maintenance?"

Wordlessly, the figure withdrew a long, lacquered walking stick and placed it on the counter. At its handle was a familiar-looking snake head, all silver with the exception of its two emerald eyes. I knew it well.

I looked back up. Lucius Malfoy was removing his hood, and only then did he greet me. "Mr. Potter."

"M-Mr. Malfoy…"

I had told Dumbledore and Snape that I did not consider Draco a friend. Half true, and half a lie. Draco and I were not friends in the sense that we claimed each other to be, but we did, for all intents and purposes, have an understanding of friendship. It had mostly solidified during the time of Tom’s passing, when I had grown a little closer to the Malfoys.

Lucius, then, I was no closer with than Draco; his prejudice against me and my associates was often set aside in the face of more pressing matters, and I could not say if this made me think well of him or worse.

But despite that, I also knew him as a family man—affectionate with his wife even though they were not soulmates, unable to resist spoiling his son, and most notably, loyal to Tom as something of an unofficial nephew. Thus, we were on relatively good terms, if not distant.

Case in point, I would have had a much rougher time dealing with Rita Skeeter had it not been for him.

"It’s been awhile," I said.

He inclined his head, just slightly. "So it has. You are well?"

I thought about my previous abduction and how I knew little of the world since it occurred. According to Voldemort, I had only been gone for two weeks, which was both not a lot _and_ quite a bit of time. Did anyone know I was gone, or had Dumbledore done a good job of covering that up?

Instead of asking, I said, "I _am_ here."

He seemed to understand what I meant. "Fortunately, yes. After the Dark Lord brought you here, there was a duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald. The entire castle burned down."

I shuddered. Would I have been left to die there? I felt it more and more likely.

"Who won?"

"Neither. Stalemate."

Small mercies, I thought. Just then, I got another idea.

"Were you—" but I stopped myself. I wasn’t sure if I would get a straight answer for it, and it was indeed a rather tactless question to ask if _he_ was the one who recommended me to the Dark Lord. Never mind it. I shook my head and instead hovered a hand over his cane. "May I?"

"You may," he said, and I got started on work.

As I extracted his wand and checked it over for both external and internal impurities, Mr. Malfoy stayed at the counter. I thought he might want to say something, but I also did not know what there was to say.

I wondered how much he knew of what had happened to me, and if he played any role in my consequent rescue. It brought back old questions, questions I had refrained from asking during the period after my mark had gone cold. Did Tom ask him to watch over me? Was he told anything at all, or was he as in the dark as I was?

"Draco," Mr. Malfoy said, "is here as well."

I paused. " _Here_?" But this might as well have been a war camp. And Draco—"But Astoria is pregnant."

"Yes," he said. "Narcissa is watching over her."

"Why—" Unless, he had no choice? I thought of Voldemort, and my lack of knowledge ensured I could see it.

Whether Mr. Malfoy knew the turn of my thoughts or not, I didn’t know. But that was irrelevant anyway, because next, he said, "Sacrifices must be made for those we hold dear, Mr. Potter."

I took out the polish.

He continued. "And no sacrifice ever comes without a consequence to those it was made for."

…I had not expected him to say something like that. But I found it to be true. I thought of my parents, my godfather, and the two other men who had supposedly been there for my birth—they were faces I only knew from pictures, people I only knew from stories. According to everyone I met, they had given their lives for me.

I did not know the circumstances, truly, nor did anyone else. The most I had ever gotten was some accident in Muggle London, and when I tried to do my own research, there was hardly a paragraph in the newspaper about it. The Obliviators had been too thorough, it seemed.

"Is that why you’re here as well?" I asked.

"I wouldn’t be a Brit if I wasn’t."

I smiled. That was surprisingly nationalistic of him.

"Nor would I be a proper husband, or a father."

...That hit a little deeper. "Isn’t it the other way around?" I asked. "Shouldn’t you be with your family?" I resumed my work as I waited for his reply.

Finally, he spoke. "Mr. Potter," Mr. Malfoy began, "I am here because there may be no home left for my family if I wasn’t. Narcissa as well, she wanted—but I told her, rather selfishly, to take care of Astoria."

I was half surprised at how honest he was being, and half pained because I knew the reason for his honesty. Even a prideful man like him recognized how death could snatch any one of them. I promised myself if that did come to pass, I would keep this memory of him and ensure it was known.

"What about Draco?"

Mr. Malfoy fell silent once more. When he spoke again, it was quietly, as if this was a confession in the name of his son.

"To deprive his unborn child of a father, or to deprive himself of his mother: it is not so clear of an answer, is it?"

No, it wasn’t. Draco loved his mother fiercely. Perhaps he thought that if he was gone, at least he knew she could provide enough love for his child to make up for his own. It was frustrating, trying to balance the scores like that, and it was sobering. Mathematics shouldn’t be applied to hearts.

"They will have me, as well," I declared, "if I am fit for it." If I wasn’t dead.

Mr. Malfoy said nothing.

"I—you have my gratitude. Your entire family has my gratitude. Back then, I was such a mess, and I was so angry—maybe I would’ve ended up in Azkaban if you hadn’t…hadn’t helped. So—"

"Thank you," he said.

I nodded and returned his wand to its sheathe. Then I placed it back onto the counter, intent to return it to him. "You take good care of it," I said. "The core still beats strong, and though the wood has been lightly scratched, I’ve remedied it the best I can."

He took it back, but did not immediately leave. Instead, he asked me, "Do you disdain the dead?"

I startled, and shifted my hands so they were well-hidden under the counter. There, it was safe to clench them all I wanted. "You mean…Tom," I said, because I needed to be absolutely clear about this.

He inclined his head.

I told him, "Sometimes," but also, "it’s myself that I hate. Because of the…the lack of _knowing_ what happened…and if there was a chance I could’ve…could’ve changed something."

"He loved you above all," Mr. Malfoy said. "He was…obsessed, before he met you. Living in the theoretical and intangible—that which we cannot touch, but feel. Imagine his brilliance, but uncaring of human limitation, uncaring of morality and ethicality. But then, he met you. And loved you. And found he could not stop."

I clenched my fists tighter.

"Love does things to a man, even one such as he. You must know he loved you, and if the circumstances so allowed, he would still be here by your side."

I looked up. "Do you—" but I could not ask. "Why now? Why are you telling me this _now_?"

He glanced down at my hand, covered by the counter. Then I realized he must’ve seen it when I gave him his cane—he must’ve seen the bandages over my soul mark, and assumed I had tried to do something horrible to myself.

I did not know how to explain to him otherwise. I couldn’t just say it had randomly started bleeding. So instead, when he did not give me a verbal reply, I said, "I know."

Slowly, he nodded. "Then, good day, Mr. Potter."

"Good day—oh, would you happen to know how I could arrange a meeting with the Dark Lord? I have some, um, questions pertaining to the task he assigned me." There, vague and confidential.

Mr. Malfoy considered me for a moment. Then he said, "I can pass on the message for you."

Relieved, I sighed. "Thank you so much."

He turned and made to leave, but upon seeing his back, one more question came to me. I felt a little bad about stopping him with our conversation finished, but I thought, suddenly, that one such as he—who knew Tom, who was aware of what once was, who knew love—could understand it, and answer.

"Mr. Malfoy," I called, and watched him stop. "If—if hypothetically, a bird and a fish had fallen in love, where would they have lived?"

I will never forget his answer.

He told me, "A bird and a fish would have nowhere to call home together. They would spend their short lives roaming the earth, find nothing, and pray at least that their graves would find a place next to each other. However…"

"However?"

"It is fortunate that we are not birds, nor fish. We are wizards, and perfectly capable of building our own home."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Funny enough, it was seeing a familiar face that reminded me of the other faces I needed to address. Namely, I did have _some_ people who possibly knew I had gone missing, and it would be remiss of me if I allowed them to continue assuming so.

However, sending an owl would be in ill taste, never mind the fact that I didn’t know _where_ I could find an owl to send. I was doubly reluctant to seek out Mr. Malfoy and have him pass on any more messages—especially to people I knew he disdained.

There was one more method of communication I knew to be safe. Sending a Patronus message to Hermione and Ron would work well. It was Mr. Weasley who had taught us three, after all, and so I wouldn’t be revealing any secrets to people of dubious intent.

I still did not know if there was anyone else involved in my abduction, so it was better safe than sorry.

The problem was, I had not casted a Patronus Charm since Tom’s death. I hadn’t _failed_ to cast one either, but the uncertainty was still worth hesitating over. It had taken me forever and a day to master it, and from there, it still depended on my state of mind to cast. Each and every time was a little bit different, and the mental upheaval I had gone through would not make things easier.

…A happy memory, was it…

All my memories of Tom were tinged with a laden glow. They were certainly strong enough to fuel a Patronus, but what after?

What would I see, and…what after?

The first time I lifted my wand, I completely failed. Not even a wisp of mist left my wand point—not unexpected, true. I took a deep breath and tried once more.

Nothing.

My hand—no, it was my entire arm that trembled. Was it that I could not decide how I felt? Was it that I did not want to think of Tom after all, and subconsciously distanced myself? Or was it that I had no desire for anything—no desire to speak to Hermione and Ron and endure their questions, no desire to better myself and take action, no desire to seek a truth I did not want.

I stood, and trembled, and stared.

 _What_ was I doing here? Where men like Mr. Malfoy and Draco and even the Dark Lord had goals in mind—intentions—plans—what was _I_ doing _here_? I wanted no part in this war, and that was my shame to carry; I had said I had successfully grieved my partner’s death, but rather than moving on, I stayed still.

What? Was I living because it was too shameful to die? Here I was surrounded by people who were willing to sacrifice themselves, to trade their life for lives—and then there was me, who did not want to live at all. Really, _what was I doing here_?

I pocketed my wand.

There was the soft _swish_ of cloth, and then behind me, someone spoke.

"You asked for a meeting?"

I turned around. Voldemort stood there, hood lowered, expressionless. I did not know what my own face looked like, but it must’ve been something ugly.

"Yes," I said, "Yes, I…I did I, have—"

I have. _I have_. I have _what_?

I cleared my throat. "I have some wand combinations that I’d like to test your compatibility with. Let me just um, fetch them."

He approached the counter as I turned and moved toward the shelves. Fortunately, I had already set the cores aside, because every single one of my movements felt clumsy and overly sluggish.

But that was the only fortunate thing. The minute I set them out on the counter, I knew.

"No," I blurted, more vehemently than I had intended to. "Um, I mean, no this just won’t do."

That was even worse. What was I saying? It was like I was fated to be at my worst every time I stood in front of this man. And it was just my luck that he was a dark lord, _and_ my employer. Ridiculous. Absurd. Couldn’t I catch a break for once?

He stared at me. An awkwardly prolonged period of silence passed.

I considered, for a moment, telling him to kill me, but thought better of it because he just might.

I breathed in. Alright, fine, bad start, but I could work with this. I had my pride as a wandmaker, after all—it didn’t matter if a million and one things went wrong, because I knew how to deal with them.

Right.

I moved around the counter. "May I see your current wand? And if you could extend your wand arm as well, please."

He did so, which was encouraging in its own right.

Dark lord he may be, but not even he used expressly wandless magic. That meant the object that had the highest concentration of his magical signature would be his current wand. I was pleased to find this true, and the charmed tape measurer dutifully took his measurements.

I inspected his stance as well. He seemed accustomed to using wands of longer length, which I noted, and it was really no wonder why blackthorn and dragon string could not meet his standards. While it was capable of dark magic, it did not seem very attached to him, and that was made worse by how its length must’ve been shorter than his original wand.

A core would oft be stretched to extend the full length of a wand, but just as importantly, the wood would be cut to size for the core.

I returned to him his wand.

"What was the length of your original wand, if you don’t mind me asking?"

He glanced at me. "Thirteen and a half inches," he said.

I clenched my hand until I could feel my nails digging into my palm, and then I released it. The same length as Tom’s, then.

"I’d prefer a longer length this time," he continued. "Thirteen will be…ill-fitting."

A core longer than fourteen inches? I did not know many. Harvesters usually cut no more than fourteen, as wand lengths rarely reached even that. Then again, with Voldemort’s arm measurements…

Wait, no—there was one core in particular that would fit—

I hurried to the materials shelf. All the available cores were kept in drawers of similar length and size, and within the drawers were the other various containers required—vials, muffling boxes, locks and latches and things of that nature. Finally, I found the drawer I was looking for.

Inside was a long, rectangular case. I flicked open the latch and lifted the lid, letting the velvet interior taste the air once more. But it was only for a brief moment. I took one of the two feathers inside—this one longer by a good several inches than the other—and placed the case back.

It was an azure feather, near as brilliant and colored as a phoenix’s, and just a half-tier less rare, too.

"This one might like you," I said, regaining a bit of my good cheer. It was difficult not to, in the presence of something so beautiful.

I approached the counter again and carefully placed it down. Voldemort met me on the other side.

"An Occamy feather," he said.

"Yes," I murmured. "An unusual core, especially since it isn’t favored by Ollivander. I was surprised to see you had a pair."

"It was a blanket purchase," he said, "from multiple sources. This one, I believe, came from one of Newt Scamander’s Occamies. I was told the other, as well, came from the same one."

Again, it was surprising to hear so casually a reminder that _Voldemort_ was the one who personally arranged all this. More than sincerity, it felt almost like I was being spoiled—which any wandmaker in my position would probably feel. It remained to be seen how amiable an employer he would be should my creation not be to his liking, but it was looking good so far.

The two feathers he mentioned were different lengths, but given the Occamy’s ability to change size, it wasn’t impossible that they came from the same creature. Rare, though, certainly; I admired it freely, and it seemed content to lie there between us, the attention of a powerful wizard and a wandmaker.

There was…something a little worrying about Occamy feather cores, and it was directly related to the Occamy’s inherent choranaptyxis. Because their size was variable, so too did the core represent a variable nature. It would be easy for the wizard to fall out of sync with the wand, if they did not reach an accord, and considering the circumstances…

Would such a core really be suitable to the Dark Lord Voldemort’s needs?

I could not answer that question, and I was even tempted to err on the side of caution and say ‘No.’

Make the wand, and risk possible repercussions, or full disclosure and risk his ire. Which one to choose…

I think what made the choice for me were all my previous interactions with him. Again, he did not mistreat me, and I was not willing to light the bridge on fire, as it were. If I was wrong in the future, then so be it; at least I could say I was not so conniving to plot against one who had yet to do me wrong.

"With all due respect, Lord," I began, "an Occamy feather, though powerful, is an abnormal core for a reason."

I explained to him my thoughts.

And he listened.

Finally, after a period of thought, he said, "Allow me to propose an alternate viewpoint."

That…was entirely unexpected. I dumbly nodded.

"Wandlore is not my area of focus," Voldemort said. "However, in my studies, I have found it has areas of which that are much similar to divination. And like divination, the cause and effects are highly up to interpretation. In this case: wand cores."

I wasn’t going to tell him I was horrible at Div back in school.

"The attitudes we see with the naked eye time and time again are difficult to be denied, but for cores rarer, such as Occamy, such as phoenix, the true effects the original creature’s nature has on the wand are not so clear. I was once told that generalities had little place in a custom wand order."

That, I agreed on. Case in point: the four wands I had theorized had immediately been eliminated, and it was now this Occamy feather, which I had not even considered, that we were discussing the flaws and merits over.

"A wise statement," I said. And a familiar one, but I could not put my finger on where I might’ve heard or read it.

I thought he almost looked amused. However, it was too hard to tell on such an inhuman face as his.

"Spoken by one who thought little of his ability and performed great feats thoughtlessly," Voldemort said.

From his mouth, it sounded like praise.

"Returning to our discussion, my proposal is this: like divination, say your interpretation holds for those who know no better, and have no role in your prophecy. But for those who are involved, they may understand the true implications, and so you have two truths, none that are lies."

I thought for a moment. "You mean this feather means differently to you than what it means to me."

"In this place, at this time, under these circumstances, yes."

I considered. Curiosity won out. "If I may ask, what does it mean to you?"

For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to tell me. But then he said, "Regardless of the size the Occamy takes, do you agree that it is the same Occamy?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then so too is the feather," he said. "Its nature may change and shift, and those who do not resonate with it will naturally not understand. However, there is no change without reason. This variance, rather than being unpredictable, or fickle, is controlled. You may know it by another term: the ability to adapt."

He lifted the feather by its shaft, and though visually it did not suit him—the azure beheld next to the red of his eyes clashed, the texture of his skin and scale incompatible with the vibrancy of the vane—it was a match. I knew it to be so.

"It means," he said slowly, "there is hope yet."

Then, he extended the feather to me.

"What must I do to have you stay here?" he asked.

"Aren’t I already?"

"Not without doubt. Not with compelling reason. Men who walk to their deaths stride with straighter backs than you."

The accusation hit a nerve, but I knew he was right. I did not take the feather. "Is it cruel of me to say I don’t want a part in this?"

"Yes," he said, "But cruel men have done crueler things."

"And you would let me?"

Quietly, he told me, "If you think I would willingly harm you, you would be wrong."

My fingers dug into the wood of the counter top. "Why? Why _not_? You would others, wouldn’t you? They say many things about you, whether they’re true or not—you’re not known for your benevolence."

"Indeed, I am not." He paused. "They say many things about you as well. But all revolve around your soulmate…around your ‘Tom’."

My hackles rose at the odd way he said Tom’s name.

"Yes, well, if you want him, sorry, he’s dead."

Voldemort made a sound—at first I didn’t know what it was, but then when it happened again, I realized he was _laughing_. Short sibilant staccato notes of laughter, like a hiss that was cut off before it could barely leave his mouth.

"As you are so frank," he said, "I will return the favor. You have something Grindelwald desires, only, it is not known whether he is aware you are in possession of it."

I stiffened. "Is it from Tom?"

"No," he replied, "But your soulmate was meticulous in protecting you because of it."

One moment was all it took for my blood to run hot and my teeth to clack inside my mouth. I reached over the counter before either of us knew what I was doing and grabbed the front of his robes, yanking him down until we were face to face.

"You know what happened to him," I said, running out of breath. "He spoke to you. You know what happened to him, don’t you? _Tell me what happened to him!_ "

Distantly, I realized that the feather had been dropped to the counter, and Voldemort’s hand was free. It rose to cover mine. Coincidentally, it covered the hand with my soul mark. His fingernails bit into the bandage and flesh; I could not identify whether the pain came from my mark or his grip.

"Do not," he said, "Overstep," he said, "Your boundaries."

But all I knew was Tom. This was not Mr. Malfoy, who had long been Tom’s associate, who I trusted at least his loyalty and knew approximately the theme of his intentions. This was not Bellatrix Lestrange, who had been Tom’s student and worshipped the ground he walked on. Nor was this Slughorn, nor was this Snape, nor was this Dumbledore, nor was this anyone I knew.

This was a man who I had never met before. This was the Dark Lord Voldemort, and if he had laid _a single finger_ on _Tom’s head_ —

I clenched his robes tighter, matching his grip of my hand. We were glaring at each other, and every second I had to look into the stolen red of his eyes, my fury grew.

" _Did you kill him?_ "

He looked me dead in the eye and said,

"No."

I loosened my grip, but he did not release me.

"Impertinent," the Dark Lord hissed. The pressure nearly broke bone. " _You dare question Lord Voldemort?_ "

His other hand rose to wrap around my neck, wringing the life out of it.

I couldn’t breathe. It felt like it lasted forever. I could not parse what he was saying, if he was saying anything at all, and I remember thinking, _this is how I die. I’m going to die_.

But then it was over; he released me, somehow half way across the room in the blink of an eye, and I stumbled back, gasping and rubbing at my neck. My knees gave out. I scrambled for my wand and raised it.

He…did not.

"Yes," I gasped, voice hoarse and crumbling, " _Indubitably_. No harm intended, huh?"

He said nothing, only watched. I did not know whether that made it better or worse, but it incited my temper and fear.

"You’re not allowed," I said, "to speak to me about my soulmate, as if you know better than I his feats and intentions. You’re not _allowed_ to even utter _his name_! You’re not allowed to share his eyes and look at me like—like—"

I gasped and gasped for breath. Still, he was motionless, as far away from me as possible.

"—Like _that_ …"

My entire arm was shaking. I thought the wand in my hand might snap by how tightly I gripped it.

I thought he might curse me. I thought he might kill me, more, because he had probably killed others for less. At this point, if he pointed his wand against me… I didn’t know, but I thought that instead of shielding myself, I might attack him instead.

But he didn’t. I saw how his body seemed to physically recoil, spine hunching to an unnatural serpentine curve as he withdrew his hands back within his cloak. He closed his eyes to me. Me, with my wand drawn and pointed, quaking but aimed—to this sight, he shut his eyes, and I could not accept what that meant.

Before I could regain my wits, he pulled up his hood and departed the tent, and all I could do was watch.

 

 

* * *

 

 

My first instinct was to leave. Get away. Find some cave in the middle of nowhere and live there until this whole mess was blown over. Honestly, I had never felt as close to Slughorn as I had then, halfway through planning my escape route.

But reason—logic—returned. Unfortunately.

My departure was not a feasible one. Was not the reason I remained here for safety? If I left now, where would I go from here?

And I had yet to fashion myself a new wand. I would be leaving a prime opportunity behind, with all the material available to me here. There might not be a second chance for me if I chose to jump ship so quickly.

It would have to be a fine balance, I decided. I still gathered as much of the basic necessities as I could and hid it away, packing in case I would need it. Voldemort had been the one to flee then, but I did not know if he would again. He did not seem the sort to.

…He did not seem the sort for many things, and yet.

The one thing I could not ignore was his knowledge of the predicament I found myself in—no, the predicament I had been stuck in for far longer than these past few weeks. What did I have that Grindelwald wanted? And…what did he know about Tom?

 _Tom_. What in the name of Merlin was going on?

I shook. I trembled. I paced, I counted, I breathed and still I felt his phantom hands upon my neck.

Then I sat, and I waited.

I waited for longer than that day.

Next morning came and I saw no hide nor hair of Voldemort, nor of anyone who could be a messenger of his. A few men and women came in individually for either maintenance or wand repair, and I dealt with them how I would any other of my customers. There was no external reminder of what had happened the day before.

Then the next morning came, and the next, and the next…

Still I waited, and still nothing came. I didn’t think it would take much of his resources to ‘take care of me’, if that was indeed in Voldemort’s agenda, so after days of inactivity on that front, I came to a conclusion. Perhaps I wasn’t safe here, but I didn’t _need_ to be safe—I needed opportunity. And that, I had.

I would fashion the Dark Lord Voldemort’s wand, and yet while I did, I would work on a wand of my own. Should any inspector come, I would be able to show them my work, and pass no more significant than I had been before. And yet, as I shaped his, I would create mine, and with a fitting wand for myself, only then would I feel safe enough to make my escape.

Why would I need to _finish_ the Dark Lord’s wand? All they needed to see was my progress on it. If he never received a wand he could master, all was the better for me—I had a chance, then, of surviving his attention, and while Gryffindors weren’t known as the most opportunistic of fellows, I was soulmate to a Slytherin. Surely my soul had learned a thing or two from that.

Deviousness, I supposed, was not so bad a robe to wear.

 

…

 

The high of having a course of action continued. I kept my head low, acted as if all was well. Not one of the men and women who visited me noticed. They spoke to me as if I was their comrade, as if we shared one mind, one intent, one lord. It was _glorious_ ; I could feel the success build within my bosom every time they turned and showed their back to me, stacking like a tower of brick sealed with a conniver’s mortar.

So _this_ was what it was like to scheme! I admit, it was a heady feeling, and I felt no guilt at their expense. My survival was at stake! Why should I feel _guilt_ , when it was his hand that had grasped and squeezed and shuddered about my throat, trembling out of the sheer force he held me with?

I was angry. Furious. Because of the strangling—yes. I would not deny it. But the crux of the matter—the cliff on which all my fury clung to—was not that. Was not his handling of my person at all.

It was his deception. How dare he withhold information about Tom from me? How dare he act as if he knew Tom’s every intention, every move, every contrivance both minor and major? And that I did not know, surely he knew it. Surely he knew how I craved truth like a deserted man craved the fount of humanity—surely he did, and because that was so, _surely_ he was mocking me.

He did not deserve my wand. He did not deserve anything from me at all; not my craftsmanship, not my conversation, not my thanks or goodwill or—or what-have-you! I spat at my past self for ever feeling grateful to him. He did not deserve it. Did not deserve the red of his eyes, did not deserve the thirteen and a half-inch wand length that he had been master of.

I warped my temper into passion, slaving day and night over what I intended to be my finest creations. His wand, the finest never finished, and mine, better even.

The occamy feather required much refinement to be fitted to a wood, which was my planned excuse for any delay. For myself, I had yet to choose a core, but the wood, yes, I had begun to carve.

Holly was no good. Not anymore. Perhaps once in my life we had been thick as thieves, but I knew I could never return to that time. Not after Tom—not after this mess. Even if holly accepted me, my heart could not accept the holly.

It was, in fact, _yew_ that I chose. A bit of an ironic twist, for sure, but I had not chosen it with that purpose in mind. No; rather, the wood had chosen me.

I had known the moment I grasped the branch in my hand, for it clung to my palm like an old friend who could not bear to see me go. And so I painstakingly carved into it the impression of a bird of prey’s foot—the hooked, sharpened talons located at the end of the wand where I would grasp. It clutched nothing but air, and time, and vanity.

I had always been a great lover of the sky.

 

 

* * *

 

 

But light and clarity did not always go hand-in-hand.

A morning just like any other, I received word that Draco had been wounded. No, it was not word meant for me, but I surmised it, and the soonest I could, I headed in the direction of the mediwitch’s tent.

I was in disbelief. For here I was, safe and sound, and yet Draco, far more cautious than I, far more at risk to lose than I, was wounded.

I stared at his bandaged face as he slept, the stench of blood and sterility mingling like some surreal potion fume. His chest rose and fell as if he were merely asleep, dreaming gentle dreams that did not take place in the harsher reality he knew. Perhaps even his body had been transported to that fantastic realm, where his hair could be mused without meaning anything, where he could sleep during the day without being questioned.

But there were red stains on the bandages.

I did not know how long I stood there. In normal circumstances, a person would’ve woken up by now, had they been stared at so intently while they slept. But Draco was still, still and alive, and his existence accused something deep and brooding within my chest.

What a fool I’d been. What a fool _I’d been_! Oh, how naïve, how short-sighted, how selfish, how _wretched_ I’d been…

Here I was, minding the dead while the living still lived!

For Draco, who remembered Britain, who remembered his wife and child and father and mother—for Draco, his path was clear. He lay without regret. And yet I, who stood tall, felt as if I had been living entirely in darkness. For the first time in so long, I saw the world as it was: a violent shade of strife and calamity, suppressing the valiance that brimmed forth at the war horn’s call.

 _Forgive me,_ I thought. But at the same time, I also begged the reverse. _Do not forgive me. Do not dare. Open your eyes and demand your penance from me!_

The mediwitch approached, fussing over his bandages with deft fingers. She looked tired—not in her face, which was more solid than steel, but in the way one repressing a sigh might appear: sharp at the eyes, nimble because the alternative could not be afforded.

 I did not know I had spoken until she spoke to me.

"Know how to set bones?" she asked.

"Set my own more than I’d like," I said.

"Wrap your own bandages, too?"

I nodded. She turned away from me.

"And blood?"

"I’m standing here, aren’t I?"

Next the mediwitch returned, she was shoving a pack of supplies in my hand. "If you want to be put to work, Mr. Wandmaker, you’ve come to the right place. Start with changing their bandages—over there, at the end. If they wake up, potions are in there."

Further discussion was meaningless. I nodded again, cast one more glance at Draco, and then set to work.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A few days had passed since Harry began helping at the medical care tent. He juggled both his duties stringently, leaving little to no time to be alone with his thoughts. It was a genuine, Hermione-tested cure for an overly worried mind: work, work, and more work.

If only all problems were solved so easily.

Today the camp was sparse. Harry was certain something had happened, or was happening, but no one had felt the urge to make him privy to it, so he did not know for sure. Draco still lay sleeping; Lucius had come by earlier yesterday, when he had not been in, and the only reason he knew was because of a passing comment by the mediwitch.

As if the world had just noticed the lull, a new group of wounded were brought in. Harry was immediately put to work. He took stock of injuries and delivered the necessary potions, identified curses and performed their counters, all in hopes that the work would run himself ragged.

That was, until a curious thing happened.

Two men who had brought in their friend to be treated were loitering nearby. Initially, Harry had tuned them out, but then their conversation took a turn away from their disconsolation towards the event that had brought them to such a state, and Harry latched onto the words like a limpet to a rock face.

"—know Dumbledore was wounded, but I also heard a rumor that our lord—"

" _Shh_ ," the other one sharply hissed. "Don't spread gossip. Grindelwald ran away with his tail between his legs! There's no possible way our lord could've been injured—"

"You two!" the mediwitch said, "If you haven't got business here, no loitering!"

Harry's hands were shaking.

 _Grindelwald_. They'd fought _Grindelwald_. And Voldemort was still using that wand, wasn't he? Because Harry hadn't finished his. Because Harry hadn't been _planning_ to finish his. And Voldemort hadn't said anything, even though he knew he was going into battle against—

The mediwitch eyed him. "What's wrong with you? Need a calming draught?"

"Could you—point me in the direction of the Dark Lord's tent—I—" he paused and took in a shaky breath, "—it's urgent."

For whatever blessed reason, she didn't ask him why. Alongside her directions, she shoved an expandable drawstring bag into his hands and said, "Won't be able to get in unless he lets you."

They locked eyes.

"Get in there," she said, "and make sure he's alright."

Harry was unceremoniously pushed out of the tent, and when he opened the drawstring bag, he realized it was full of medical supplies. He immediately pulled it shut again.

The temptation to stand there and wallow in his guilt was strong, but it wasn't the time or place for that. No—it was never the time or place for that. He'd already spent so long dazed and wandering; it was time to find his path again.

Without another moment's hesitation, Harry darted off across the camp.

As he thought, being a Slytherin really didn't suit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like funny story about when I said I finished chapter 3.....
> 
> I really hadn't finished chapter 3 lmao. OOPS. but it's done now. Hooray!


	4. Chapter 4

"Wandmaking?" Ron wrinkled his nose. "You sure about that, mate?"

Harry, at the time, had shrugged. "Why not? There's nothing else I want to do."

"I thought you wanted to try out for Puddlemere United? Weren't you scouted?"

That was true. He had always thought Quidditch was his future, in some way, shape, or form. Playing Seeker gave him a thrill like no other; glimpsing the snitch, diving after it, grasping it in his hand and hearing the announcer cry, _"Harry Potter has caught the Golden Snitch!"_

His father had been a Seeker, too, but for all the stories told of James Potter's school days, there was just as many absent from the time after Hogwarts. What had his father done, after? And his mother? Harry didn't know—didn't know what was beyond Hogwarts.

"Yeah, well," Harry said, "They wanted...details, that I couldn't give them."

"Details?" Ron asked. "Details about _what_?"

"Well," Harry licked his lips, "They wanted to know...know why my soulmark was...was—" Not for the first time, Harry wished they weren't talking through floo. He couldn't use his hands like he wanted to, motion in the way he knew Ron would understand.

"Red," Ron said flatly. "They wanted to know why your soulmark was red."

"...Yeah, that."

"Well that's stupid," Ron declared. "What's it matter what you have on your hand? You can _play_. You'd have to be blind not to see that!"

Harry shrugged again.

"...What'd you tell them?"

"Well, obviously that I didn't know," Harry said. "If I knew, then...then I'd _know_."

"...So? What'd they say?"

Harry paused, wondering if he shouldn't tell Ron after all. Eventually, the urge to talk about it won out.

"At first," he said, "I didn't really realize what they were asking me to do. They were, they were nice about it, see? They said...they said what you said, that all that mattered was how I played. But then they started saying—they told me that Quidditch players deal with a lot of reporters, right? Interviews and stuff, before the game and after the game...and."

Ron waited.

Harry cleared his throat. " _And_. Red isn't really a conventional color for a soulmark."

"...Guess not," Ron said, rather diplomatically. His face gave him away, though, twisting like he'd just eaten an earwax-flavored Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Jelly Bean.

Quietly, Harry said, "They asked me to paint it."

Ron looked horrified. "No," he said, and when Harry nodded, he said again, "What? No!"

"So I didn't make the team," Harry said, louder. "Hope no one was planning a party for it."

"Tell me you at least punched them," Ron demanded.

Harry didn't. "I'd have gotten into more trouble than it's worth doing that."

"And since when has that ever stopped you?"

"Look," Harry said, "I might not have a Quidditch career ahead of me anymore, but Ollivander's willing to have me on. And if he's willing to teach me, then I'm willing to learn."

Ron sighed. Finally, his shoulders drooped, and he sent Harry a look of exaggerated disbelief before he said, "Wandmaking, though?"

Harry shrugged. "Who knows, maybe I'll be good at it?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Voldemort's tent appeared no different than the rest on the outside, though it was a bit larger than the rest. I assumed it was more for camouflage rather than any sense of humility; if the camp was attacked, he wouldn't want to give them a shining beacon to guide them on their merry way.

I stopped in front of the tent flap. The mediwitch was right—I could feel the strength of the wards, thick and cloying as they worked to identify who I was. I rehearsed several different variations of a sentence that could get me in; something along the lines of, _I need to speak to you about your wand_. Maybe before I would have thought it would get me killed, but considering he hadn't offed me yet, I thought I had a pretty good chance of surviving.

But as it so happened, I didn't need to say a word. The brick wall of the wards parted, almost reluctantly so, like a sluggish version of the entrance to Diagon Alley. I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth—I entered, unthinkingly, just knowing I needed to see him once. My questions—his answers—could come after.

I needed to see him _alive_ , first.

Initially, I didn't realize he was in the room. It was dark inside, only lit by a dim lamp on the far side of the tent, a long distance away from where I entered.

The room was clean and orderly; everything was tucked away into one of the various wooden chests and cabinets lining the walls, and even the desk on which the lamp sat was clean of paper or detail. There was only an ink well with a quill sticking out of it, a feathery half black, speckled white that seemed disorienting when compared with the order of the rest of the room.

What was the term? Ah, yes—out of character. Something as small as this quill seemed out of character for him, and it nudged something inside my chest. I clenched my jaw at the thought, because dark lords weren't supposed to have characters, but somewhere along the way, I had stumbled off that line of thought and into a new path: one that humanized him in a way I was taught not to.

And that was when I saw him.

He had his back to me, dressed in a black that blended perfectly with the shadows he stood in. His robes rippled as he moved—just the slightest arm movements, but they grew sharper as I watched, until I could no longer bear it.

"Let me," I said, stepping forward.

He paused. And slowly, he turned around. "Still here?" he asked, raising a brow. "Shocking."

That he was cross didn't surprise me—rather, it was the manner in which he displayed it that made me balk.

But I recovered and met his stare. "You either want me to stay or you want me to leave," I told him.

"And what will you do regardless?"

I frowned at him and closed the distance between us. The bandages he had been working at were actually rather well done, but I undid them anyway and used the supplies the mediwitch gave me instead. Once uncovered, the long, jagged gash running down his arm revealed, I took a moment and stared.

That was when I knew I had made the right decision.

I finished cleaning it and applying a topical cream before I finally said, "You seem to think you know me rather well."

I felt the weight of his gaze on my head, but I ignored it and began to work on a new set of bandages.

"It's quite annoying, actually."

He didn't reply.

I continued. "But I've caused you a fair amount of pain in return, so…I'm apologizing for it." I looked up. "I'm sorry."

"…I suppose some things can't be accounted for," he muttered. "How's your neck?"

"Healed," I said. "How's your wand?"

"Broken," he said, and motioned with his uninjured hand to the top of the cabinet.

The surface was scattered with various supplies that he'd clearly been trying to use singlehandedly, but off to the side was indeed the pieces of a broken wand, snapped in two and splintered at the breaking point. It was a different one from before—not the blackthorn with dragon heartstring core.

But Voldemort was still not meant to be its master.

"You never expected me to make you a wand, did you?"

"It was unlikely," he said, "after."

I bit my lip and looked away. "Why did you keep me around, then? Why did you give me—"

"You busied yourself," he said. "I do get reports, you know."

" _Why keep a wandmaker if he isn't going to make you a wand_?"

He did not answer for a moment, and I finished tying his bandages within that time. He took his arm away. I did not stop him.

"I needed you to be safe," he finally said. "Above all else…is your safety. There is no objective greater than that."

"But _why_?" I said again. It made no sense to me, and indeed, how could it? I wasn't speaking to some common stranger off the street; this was a dark lord that had literally fought against Grindelwald, who as far as I knew was working for the survival of Wizarding Britain. One wandmaker—not even a famous one at that—seemed hardly able to compare.

"I told you once that Grindelwald desires something you possess," Voldemort said quietly. "It is one of the keys—one of the most vital, for if he obtains it, he may be nigh unstoppable."

"What is it?"

"The Potter heirloom—the Cloak of Invisibility."

I stared, incredulous. Sure, I had been told it had been in my family for as long as history recorded, but it was just a simple invisibility cloak! Anyone could buy one with the right coin! Fine, fair; the Potter family's Invisibility Cloak never faded, or lost effectiveness, but so what? It was only _one_ cloak.

Maybe if Grindelwald's army had a battalion's worth, we should be scared, but just one? What good would that do?

He said to me, "I need to know what you intend."

"Oh? You're not in the business of predictions anymore?" I asked.

Mirroring the same tone as I had used, he said, "No, because some people are spiteful brats and have a way of subverting them."

Betraying myself, I grinned. "I wonder who that could be."

He gave me a look, and I laughed.

But all joy was lost in the next second. He was asking what I intended to do. This was not in line with any image of him I previously had.

I thought it fair.

"Three days," I said. "I'll have your wand done in three days. It'll be the best damn wand you've ever used, and then you're going to tell me what's going on."

"An exchange," he mused. "A little interesting. Go on."

"Wandmaking is a seriously exhausting business, you know," I said, fiddling with the edge of my sleeves. "After a three-day rush order, I think I'll be so exhausted, all I'll do is stay in my tent all day, resting."

I pointedly avoided looking at him, acting as if the stitching on my clothes was far more interesting than a conversation with a dark lord. In this manner, one beat passed, then two, then three…

"I think," Voldemort began, "a better use of your time would be bedsitting. Lucius' son, Draco, is injured, is he not? Perhaps he could use a…friend. And I am sure many more of the wounded would be in need of some company."

I nodded seriously. "Not a bad idea. I'll consider it."

And with that said, I grabbed one of the strands of hair on the back of my head and yanked it free. Then, I held it up to him.

He took it.

"I'll have the mediwitch set aside a Pepper-Up for you, once you're finished," he said.

"How generous," I said. "Well then, I'll be on my way. Got to get started on that wand, you know."

"I'll hold you to it."

 

 

* * *

 

 

They say things have a strange way of coming back to you.

I suppose that's true.

As I made the walk back to Voldemort's tent three days after I had left it, I wondered. Ollivander once told me that wandmaking was a very superstitious craft by nature; there was a line that existed between faith—divination—prophecy, and superstition, and it was easy to stumble past it even for the best of wandmakers. Where did reality meet what had yet to come, and where was what had yet to come realized, defined, formed and set in stone?

These questions, while not our task to answer, became inevitable to ask at one point or another. And as I walked through the camp, the longest walk I had ever taken, longer still than my escape through the castle Dumbledore had held me prisoner in, I wondered.

I did not hesitate, or doubt, or regret—I simply wondered.

Once more, I was admitted into the tent through the wards, and once more, I stood in that dimly lit room. This time, there were two men waiting inside for me.

One, the taller of course, was Voldemort.

And the other, smaller built, dressed in indiscriminate robes, was me—or at least, the _image_ of me.

Naturally, I stared. It wasn't every day I got to see myself—vivid and fleshly rather than in the reflection of a mirror. My image stared back, tilted his head, and then let loose a rather roguish grin that certainly did not belong to me.

"Harry," Voldemort said, and then motioned to the one beside him. "Barty Crouch Jr."

"An honor to meet you, Potter," the other Harry—Barty—said.

Ah, good 'ol Polyjuice. I nodded to him. "Likewise."

I stepped forward, extending my hand, and he stepped forward to shake it. But before our palms touched, an odd look crossed his face, and he stilled and stared. I followed his gaze to my hand—no, specifically, the red crystal on the back of it. The bandages had gotten in the way of my work, and when I saw the bleeding had stopped, I had taken them off and never looked back.

I looked at Barty's mirrored hand, and the soulmark matched, for the most part, but it was _off_ in an inexplicable way. That was one of the pitfalls with Polyjuice—it was unable to replicate the soulmark in its entirety, which made identification easy if one knew what to look for and knew the person well enough.

No one really knew why Polyjuice failed in this one tiny matter, especially when it was able to replicate everything else. The study of soulmarks was too incomplete a field to say.

I bet Tom knew, or at least had a pretty good theory why.

"Might want to…keep that covered," I said. "A bandage works."

Barty agreed but made no other attempt to talk. He looked surprisingly docile now, though maybe he was trying to get into character, or something—appear unassuming. Well, whatever the matter, he only needed to take my place until I got back from retrieving my Invisibility Cloak.

When I turned to look at Voldemort, I noticed him watching us rather intently. Nothing else in his expression gave anything away though, so I put it to the back of my mind and proceeded to present him his wand.

As if he was just another customer, I had packaged his wand in a thin wooden box, though naturally the box was bigger than my usual orders due to the length of the wand in question—fifteen inches long, as per his request. I handed it to him with both hands and waited for him to remove the lid.

He stepped forward as Barty moved back a respectable distance, making himself scarce without leaving the tent.

"Before you say it," I said, "Don't look at me. It was _your_ feather."

Voldemort distinctly looked like he no longer wanted to open the box.

"Go on," I said. And then, smiling despite myself, I added, "Give it a wave."

He removed the lid and gingerly lifted his new wand, eyes scanning it from head to tail. I had painstakingly carved each and every single detail on it—the scales of a fish, with the handle curled down to end with the head of a snake.

"Fifteen inches long, holly wood, with a core of occamy feather," I explained. "To balance the conflict between the protective nature of the holly and the aggression of the occamy, I added the remaining two elements to the wood: the scales of a trout, and the head of a cobra. Fire, air, water, earth. Compounded together, life, which appeases the holly and strengthens the occamy."

Voldemort said nothing for a long while. And then, softly bemused, he uttered, "Holly."

"Your feather wouldn't agree to anything else," I said, confident in that truth but not so hopeful for a pleased reaction. On one hand, holly was a protective wood, and it did fit with his quest to protect Wizarding Britain from Grindelwald—but such a wood wasn't nearly as aggressive as say, yew or aspen.

Fitting in symbolism and lacking in practicality. It figured.

He was silent, and then—"No," he said, "I would think not."

Then, Voldemort lifted his wand above his head and waved it in a slow, steady arc. A stream of red sparks flew. As the sparks crackled, they merged to form the image of an occamy, and made a lap around the room before fading at the Dark Lord's command.

I watched as he closed his eyes and deeply inhaled, as if he could smell the residual magic in the air. Then his breath left him, and he opened his eyes again.

"How…curious," he said to himself, "How strange fate is when we seek to move against it."

I did not comprehend, but on a visceral level, on a primal level, I understood.

He turned to look at me. "It is…acceptable," he said, fingers lightly running along the ridges of the carved scales. "Only time will tell how it serves me."

I could finally breathe again.

Without further ado, Voldemort removed a plain medallion from within his sleeves and intoned, " _Portus_."

Nothing exploded. A good sign, if any.

"You will return to this exact spot. I will know, and you will wait here until I return with Barty," Voldemort said. Then, he conjured a small leather pouch, enclosed the medallion within, and handed it to me.

I slipped it around my neck and stared at him.

"We will discuss the other details upon your return," he said, answering my unasked question.

That was…acceptable. If my Invisibility Cloak really was that important, we couldn't waste any more time. At least Voldemort now had an operating wand should anything happen, and I—well, while I hoped it would be a simple enough stop, I knew there was an equally likely chance of something going wrong.

Prepare for the unexpected; wasn't that always what they said?

"Well," I said, "See you then."

I was about to leave when suddenly, he said to me, "The kaleidoscope. Do you have it with you?"

I froze. There was no mistaking what he meant, but with everything I knew now, everything I surmised from our past interaction, I doubted he was merely asking after a trinket. It was highly likely that, if he knew Tom's goals and motivations, he would also know the meaning of Tom's last gift to me—know the meaning of this kaleidoscope.

"I have it," I said cautiously.

He nodded once. "Perhaps it may be of use to you," he said, "for when you doubt the truth of what you see."

 

 

* * *

 

 

As wandmaking was generally a craft that did not require sneaking around, my Invisibility Cloak was usually on loan, either to Hermione or Ron. In this case, I had previously lent my cloak to Ron for a stakeout mission and had yet to make the trip to retrieve it when Dumbledore had caught me unaware. It would've been bloody useful in that castle, but, well, here we were.

Ron, I knew, would be resting in the Burrow today. It was his off day, and he tended to spend them in several different ways, but he always made it home in time for lunch and dinner. I counted on that then.

Though I certainly thought of the idea to attempt another Patronus messenger, ultimately, I did not go through with it, and ended up cautiously making my way to the Burrow after apparating a distance away from it.

I instantly knew something was wrong.

There was smoke—too much smoke. No, not the smoke of a fire, but a shrouding smoke—a smoke of a battle with the Dark Arts.

But oddly, I could not make out the sounds of spellcasting. Was it already over? Or even worse...did I come too late?

For a moment, I was breathless with the thought. I ran, charged in, trying to keep my direction steady as the sickening ink of the mist curled thick and cloying in my path.

Then, through the eerie silence, I heard—

"Harry!"

That was...

"Harry, over here!"

I turned. Through the smoke I saw a head of red, and whoever it was flicked their wand and cleared a path for me. Thank Merlin, I thought; it was Ron.

"Ron," I breathed, and ran over to him. He caught me and steadied me, and I squeezed his hand hard. "Ron, what happened? Where's—where is everyone?"

Ron's face twisted in anger and grief. "They're this way. We barely managed to escape—come on, everyone's been worried sick about you! When you disappeared and no one could find you, we thought the worst—"

"I'm alright," I reassured. "A lot of things...happened. I'll tell you about it later, but—what happened _here_? Was it—was it Grindel—"

"Don't speak his name!" Ron said quickly. He looked around in a panic, and only when he found the coast clear did he turn back to me and say, "We managed to fool them at the last second, but they might still be hanging around. Come on, we should hurry."

Hurry, yes, we should—I began to follow him, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of his wand and it struck something within me.

Why would Ron... _not_ be the master of his own wand?

"I'm so glad you escaped that place, Harry," Ron said. "Word on the street is that both Voldemort and Dumbledore have lost their minds! Nothing good comes from an alliance between two maniacs."

I swallowed. It was true—that I escaped someplace was a reasonable assumption to make. I hadn't sent word to either he or Hermione, after all. But wait a minute; something was wrong here. Did Ron ever despise Dumbledore so much as to spit his name like that?

And 'Voldemort'. By the time I had been kidnapped, people had been suspicious of him, true, but the majority simply didn't know what to make of him. Certainly, Ron hadn't held a strong opinion, more concerned about the war with Grindelwald.

When had _that_ turned to calling him a ' _maniac_ '?

That aside, there was one other thing I needed to know…

"What...alliance?" I asked.

"You didn't know? Dumbledore's made some sort of pact with Voldemort. Something about joining forces to fight off the Dark Lord—"

I couldn't believe it, but it clicked. The mention of the two back in the mediwitch's tent—that must've been after. And Voldemort had been at the castle I'd been trapped in, hadn't he? What had he been doing there, and how had he gotten in? If not for...

Funny thing, the human mind was. How cruelly it could make the heart ache, unreasonably so—it wasn't like we were on the closest terms; he'd tried to strangle me to death, for Merlin's sake, but—

But...

Why did it feel like he had betrayed me?

And it was at that moment that, either because of my own carelessness or the mercy of fate, I tripped.

On a rock.

Well, as I said before, one in dire straits doesn't simply look a gift horse in the mouth. I immediately acted pained, clutching at my ankle like something horrible had happened.

"Harry!" Ron said, turning around and running back to me. "What happened?"

"I kind of—" I coughed, "—got into a little fight, back there. When I was escaping. I think—I think they got me with some sort of curse—agh!"

"Here, let me take a look," he said. I obediently rolled up my pant leg for him.

As he busied himself with that, from out of my pocket, I slipped the kaleidoscope into my other hand. It was the moment I desperately needed the truth, I figured, and this was my best bet.

I lifted the kaleidoscope to my eye and looked.

It didn't even take half a second. I did not know what I was seeing or how to exactly describe it, but all I knew was what my mind and magic told me.

_Liar!_

_Deceiver!_

_Fake!_

I heeded my instinct's call just as 'Ron' turned to look back up at me.

"I don't think anything's wr—"

" _Levicorpus_!" I shouted. As his body was flung back and hoisted into the air, I chained another quick disarming spell to reclaim Ron's wand from whoever this fake was. Unfortunately—but not unexpectedly—the wizard pulled out another wand and freed himself, firing a dark curse in my direction as retaliation.

We struggled momentarily; the wizard was an adequate duelist, but he underestimated how dirty I was willing to get. As I acted struck from a flesh-eating curse that had brushed past my rib, he approached, and when he grew close enough, I lunged at him and decked him in the jaw with a sound uppercut.

Either it was my hand that broke or his jaw—probably both, actually, but the end result was desirable. As he cried out in pain, I quickly subdued him and jabbed the tip of my wand to the underside of his chin, directly against his pulse point.

The image of 'Ron' quickly melted away. Red hair became blond, freckles disappeared, the entire shape of his face restructured.

A metamorphmagus. I grimaced. It figured.

"Where are they?" I snarled. "What have you done with Ron?"

"As if I would tell you," he spat, breath ragged. "Your head belongs to the Dark Lord—won't be needing any friends there—"

I forewent the wand and punched him again, harder than I intended, but did it matter? As long as he suffered, as long as he felt the blow ringing in his bones and sloshing his marrow, that was good enough. That was satisfaction enough.

"Where. Are. _They_."

The man gargled at the blow, but still acted as if he were the one standing over me. "Dead, probably," he mocked, grinning. There was blood on his lips. "The others have probably taken care of them by now. They'll be here soon. Submit, _Harry Potter, and give yourself over to the Dark Lord Grindelwald's noble cause_ —"

I didn't hear the rest, only 'dead'. _Dead_. No, they couldn't be—not another, not another soul was allowed to _die on me_!

I could not stand the evidence of the consequences to my inaction. Perhaps if I had gone sooner, or kept practicing my Patronus, or made Voldemort's damn wand _sooner_ , then—!

I looked at that man's bloody, mocking lips and felt an overwhelming rage sweep over all grief and all sane thought in my head. The only thing I knew were immediates—the heaving of my own chest, the sweat of my palms as they clutched a heated stick of wood not my own; the flesh and blood beneath me, and how I could make him scream.

Nothing would make me wait another moment. The tip of my wand glowed red.

" _Crucio_!"

He did scream—loud and long; a gasping, breathless wail that satisfied me soul-deep. I rose and watched his body writhe and wrench into the most unnatural angles. His fingers dug into whatever skin of his he could find purchase on until a new wave of pain forced him to contort again.

As he gasped and cried, I breathed in, slow and savoring, and then breathed out, emptying my lungs as I found vindication.

I cut the curse.

"Where are they," I asked him again.

The wizard opened his mouth to take a shaky breath, but before he could answer, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he spasmed once more. Drool and white foam leaked out of the corner of his mouth, and the trail it left began to melt through his skin. I heard a steady hissing sound, and then steam started to drift off his body.

I knew for certain he was dead.

My anger, temporarily sated as it was, left ample adrenaline to drive me to action again before I could register what had happened. If I could not get answers from a corpse, then I would get answers from the scene of the crime.

I pocketed the kaleidoscope and Ron's wand before heading in the direction of the Burrow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Burrow was not empty, but the most important detail was that the Weasleys were still alive.

There were five men in total, and they seemed to be taking turns trying to _crucio_ their hostages into giving them answers. I did not know what they wanted answers to—perhaps if I had listened longer, I would've found out—but so driven by rage was I that I struck near immediately, taking advantage of their occupation and my own boiling blood to sweep them clean of consciousness.

I killed at least one by the time I met Ron's eyes. They were weary, aged, but unsurprised. It reminded me again how he knew death—an Auror wasn't to sit at his desk all day. Perhaps it had been me all along who was slow on the uptake.

I returned to him his wand and freed the rest of the family.

Mrs. Weasley immediately embraced me.

"Harry, oh Harry! I'm so glad you're alive—"

She only released me at the behest of the others, who also took their turn. Charlie, Percy, and Bill were not home. George's ear had been cut off. One of Fred's eyes were bleeding. Ginny had a nasty bruise on her face, and Mr. Weasley was still trembling from the aftershock of the Cruciatus.

My heart ached. I wished I had gotten here sooner.

"Good timing, Harry," Mr. Weasley said quietly, as Molly was giving some emergency medical attention to her sons and daughter. Ron helped her as well. "Didn't know you could fight like that."

I ducked my head. Neither did I, honestly.

"I'm sorry I came late."

Mr. Weasley shook his head. "Not late at all. How—" He paused. "Unless, you can't say."

I looked at him then. "How do you know?" I asked cautiously.

"Well, you look like you've been in a scuffle, but not like you've been in a war." He winced. "Wrong choice of words. We're all at war. No, you don't look like you've been held prisoner somewhere."

I briefly thought about it but decided not to tell him about Dumbledore.

"I haven't been," I said. "You don't have to worry. I'm…safe."

To what degree I believed that, he didn't have to know.

Mr. Weasley nodded slowly.

"You should send a message to Dumbledore," I said. "If they targeted the Burrow, maybe they'll do it again. You should find some other place to stay."

"A sound idea," Mr. Weasley mumbled. Then he nodded again to himself and took out his wand, which he had retrieved from one of Grindelwald's men a few moments earlier.

I stopped him before he could cast his Patronus. "Sorry, but…do you mind doing that when I'm not…"

His face went through a myriad of different expressions. Surprised, confused, concerned, weary, angry, and then…

"Alright," he said, and squeezed my shoulder again. "If you need anything, Harry, you know how to call me. All of us…we're behind your corner. That's what the muggles say, isn't it?"

"It's 'in your corner', but yeah," I said.

We shared a smile. I could not tell him I lost the ability to cast the Patronus charm he taught me.

Ron pulled me aside next.

"You alright, mate?" he asked, lowering his voice.

I thought that an odd question when _he_ had been the one getting tortured. Still, I nodded. I didn't quite know how to approach the next topic—what I had come here for.

But he didn't need me to say anything.

"It's this way," Ron said. We ascended the stairs.

The rest of the house was in the same disarray that downstairs had been. They must've searched for it, I realized. All over. And when that hadn't worked…

He brought me to his room. It too had been searched, but Ron didn't look very concerned. He tapped his wand in a pattern on one of the floorboards, lifted it, and revealed what I thought was an empty hole. Then he muttered a few more incantations and the spell faded away.

In it was a shrunken chest. This he pulled out too, enlarged, and then unlocked.

"Here," he said, handing to me my folded Invisibility Cloak. "They didn't say why they wanted it, but…be careful, okay?"

It felt like my heart was caught in my throat. I hugged him, overcome, and though he seemed surprised, he hugged me back.

"Thank you," I whispered. Ron had protected my cloak even only thinking it was an heirloom of my father's.

"No problem," he said, mouth quirking.

"Could you check on Hermione, too?" I asked. "I came here first, but if they were searching for it, then…"

Ron took in a breath and nodded sharply. "Got it. She should be with Viktor's family right now. I'll send a Patronus."

"Thanks."

There was a beat. He seemed to want to say something, so I waited.

"Hermione and I…we were investigating," Ron began. "We looked everywhere for you. And then we found out—on the day you went missing—"

I was silent.

"Was it Dumbledore?"

I could not lie to him. I nodded.

Ron cursed. "Why would he—"

"It's a long story," I cut in before he could continue. "And there's a lot I still don't know, but…I escaped. I think."

"You _think_?"

"Well, I'm about to find out, really." No matter what, Voldemort still had the information I needed. If he was really working with Dumbledore…I would still need to go back regardless. "It's complicated. But with _this_ , I should be alright."

Ron looked physically pained.

"He won't hurt you," I said. "The reason he went after me was—it was about Tom. I wouldn't trust him as far as I can throw him, now, but you need a safe place, and Grindelwald won't be able to touch you if you're with Dumbledore."

At least, I hoped. It was certainly better than staying at the Burrow.

"That's not what I'm worried about," Ron said. "I'm worried about _you_. What are you going to do?"

I paused, and then, "I'm staying in Voldemort's camp," I told him. At his incredulous look, I added, "It's…part of the long story. Maybe. Look, don't worry about me—just stay safe. I can't—I don't want you to—"

"I got it," Ron said. "But if you need us, Hermione and I are here. You don't have to go through this alone, Harry."

Inexplicably, I thought of Voldemort.

"Thank you," I told him earnestly. "I—I have to go. I'll let you know if something comes up, though."

He nodded. "I'll check on Hermione. Don't worry about it. Do—do what you need to."

We parted. I headed back to Voldemort's camp using the portkey, and he downstairs, to tell his father to send the message to Dumbledore.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The adrenaline was long gone when I arrived back in Voldemort's tent.

It wasn't like I had been dazed and deluded the last three hours—it wasn't like I'd forgotten what this hand of mine had done. No; if anything, I was intensely aware of it: the Unforgiveable I had cast (never before), the death I had seen today (common in war), and the man—men—I had killed in the ensuing fight (the first, but I could not promise the last).

As aware as I was, it didn't—bother. I felt no guilt nor shame, only this intense awareness that I could not rid myself of, and as I recounted the memory over and over as I waited for Voldemort to arrive, I still could not bring myself to shame or horror.

No, the only horror I felt was at my inability to feel it.

And that was my first clue that something was terribly, irreparably wrong with me.

Voldemort did not arrive, and I did not want to wait with my thoughts any longer. Their company was nauseating. The longer I prodded at the disparity within me, the more significant I felt the disconnect between what _should be_ and what _clearly wasn't_. But there really wasn't any time to ruminate—given, I really didn't want to, either—I had loose ends to tie, and Voldemort wasn't here to let me tie them.

If later he asked why I wandered out of the tent, I'd just blame him, because it was true.

Outside, the world was still. That in itself was worrisome, but what made it worse were the bodies littered over the grounds. I swung the Invisibility Cloak over my head immediately and ran towards their source—the center of camp.

A staggering of backs barred my entrance. I recognized Mr. Malfoy further in front; Barty as well, the polyjuice worn off; several others who had gone to me for wand maintenance. Mixed in were people I knew in contexts far from the battlefield: Snape I saw instantly; cousin Tonks not far from him, standing beside her mentor Alastor Moody; Kingsley Shacklebolt, a senior Auror from the Ministry of Magic whom I'd only seen a few times visiting Ron; Sturgis Podmore, an amiable enough man who commonly attended the Weasley Yule party…and many more.

Dumbledore. Voldemort. Both standing tall among their respective parties, pines in a forest full of saplings.

Across from them stood an army who I only recognized by uniform. Their bodies had lied still on the ground, too, but the number standing easily matched or even triumphed ours.

"Albus, Albus, Albus…" Grindelwald, standing at the forefront of his men, shook his head and laughed. He was tall, made of bulk, blond with streaks of greyed hair; handsome, had it not been for the mania coloring his eyes, shading the grooves of his face and tilt of his mouth.

I saw him smile. His teeth were a stark, unnatural shade of white.

"How hard you've tried to stop history's repetition," he said. "Ah, but little did you know that _history_ —"

He rose his wand aloft. I saw the pale blue glint of light glancing off his soul mark, then the wand itself of which he was master: fifteen inches, elder wood, with a core of Thestral tail-hair. Its deep, throaty call for bloodlust sent a horrified chill down my spine.

I knew that wand. It had been silent the times I'd seen it before, subdued.

But it was Dumbledore's wand no longer.

Grindelwald's smile grew knowing, smug at the horrified look of his wand's original owner. "History," he declared, "is still in the making!"

Then he turned his gaze once more, and I saw him sweep the crowd. It felt like the very air held its breath, the tension so heavy upon us that it cloyed. My stomach rung itself and then my heart, for as Grindelwald looked in my direction, he paused, considering.

Our eyes locked.

"There you are," he said, lowering his wand. And then louder, "So nice of you to join us at last, Mr. Potter. I was rather disappointed to find a fake when I first arrived."

A murmur moved through the crowd. People I knew and knew well turned their heads, looking for me. None found me so well as Grindelwald did, save for two.

Dumbledore…

And Voldemort.

Grindelwald extended his hand. "Now, hand over the Cloak of Invisibility and we can put an end to this war."

On the contrary, I clutched it tighter to myself. Merlin knew why he wanted it, why it was so important, but all I had to know was that he could not be allowed to get it, and my path was clear.

I breathed in and unshrouded myself.

"Hand it over so you can use it to destroy Britain? Sorry, but I'm not feeling particularly suicidal today."

If my _impertinence_ —as Tom liked to call it—annoyed him, Grindelwald didn't show it. He merely smiled as if this was just a game to him, and he was the expert playing us all.

"Out of the entire Potter family line, not one has been a wandmaker," he said. "Fascinating, truly. Perhaps this is fate—for to the one who needs it most, _you alone_ can recognize it. At but a glance! Don't you, Mr. Potter?"

When I didn't answer, he proceeded to display his wand before him, balancing it upon his fingertips as if they were nothing but a stand for it to rest upon.

"The Elder Wand: the most powerful wand in the world, capable of magic beyond man's reach—" Grindelwald twirled it, "— _wielded_ by the most powerful wizard in the world. I know what you desire, and I can bring him back for you."

My heart, inconsolable, shuddered at the monstrous amalgamation of hope and horror taking shape within—a beast I could not suppress, patching itself together stitch by gory stitch. The chance to cross into the Forbidden Arts and turn the dead living dragged this corpse of desire from its coffin home, and I, its summoner sickened, could not stop it.

I knew what he was about to offer me.

"Your soulmate's soul still lingers here on earth, trapped by the unfortunate circumstances of his death. Don't you want to save him? Bring him back?"

"You're lying," I said.

"Tom Riddle's life in exchange for the Cloak of Invisibility is a worthy trade, wouldn't you say, Mr. Potter?"

"No one can bring back the dead," I said. I wouldn't allow the thought of Tom suffering to shake me—I could not, for I was sure Grindelwald was the devil, and nothing good ever came out of such deals.

_The dead were dead, but the living still lived._

I, living, could not afford to let myself forget.

Grindelwald shook his head, a motion full of pity and self-assuredness. "You do not know the power of the Elder Wand—that's only to be expected, I suppose. As a show of good faith, why not I bring him back for you?"

No one moved. Perhaps they all wanted to see if he could do it—if he could truly bring back the dead.

I was no better than them.

Grindelwald smiled nastily. A dark, murky cloud spilled forth from his wand point, accumulating on the ground before him like sludge. It smelled horrid—the scent of sulfur and decay. Magic groaned. Everything in my body told me to flee, and yet there was one part, just one, that pulled closer. That _burned_.

The aching of my soul mark could not be denied.

The sludge rose, a fountain spout in slow, creeping motion. It twisted, bubbled, _boiled_ , releasing a putrid steam that immediately sunk to the ground and flooded the area. And then, that shapeless _thing_ took form: limbs, a broad set of shoulders, a head—fingers, hair, a nose, eyes, lips—I saw him coalesce before me and wanted to hurl.

It was Tom, and it was not.

Tom _breathed_. He took a step forward and all of us took a collective step back. The dirty magic layering the ground climbed his naked body and became a set of robes in the uniform of Grindelwald's army—Tom would never. I knew he would never, but his eyes, a deep, lustered red, gouged straight into mine.

"Harry," it said, and it was Tom's voice, Tom's intonation. It used the same lilt as Tom did when I was upset with him, warm and cajoling, a promise he did not intend me harm.

It was not him, and yet, I called his name still.

"Tom," I cried, cracking high. " _No_!"

"No?" Grindelwald chuckled. "You disbelieved me, and yet here your soulmate stands: whole, alive once more!"

"Harry," it called again, and beckoned to me. "Haven't you missed me? You've been alone this entire time. I'm sure it was hard on you. But never fear, darling; we can be together again."

I shook my head frantically. No. No no no no no.

It nodded. "Just give him the Cloak, and we can."

"No," I begged. "Stop it! You're not real!"

"I am as real as the mark you bear upon your hand," it said. "Look into my eyes and see the truth!"

It began to walk towards me. A wave of black smoke flung away those who stood in its path. In the background, Grindelwald laughed.

The truth. The _truth_. I fumbled for my pocket and retrieved the kaleidoscope.

Through its eye hole, I looked.

A film of shifting colors overtook the world. Unlike the previous times when I had used the kaleidoscope, I saw many things—many bonds I could never forget but were not mine to say. I saw Grindelwald. I saw Dumbledore. And I saw Tom's.

A long, slack, silk-thin thread tied me to the thing approaching, leading straight into the middle of its chest, its true shape undefined. Sharp, jagged pieces of glass and debris protruded from its skin; its face was masked in ink blots, as viscous as the sludge it formed from.

I did not fear it. Instead, I felt inexplicably sad.

It was Tom, and it was not.

But through the glass I saw another line extending to the far right. This was not a thread, but a rope, thick and sturdy as if it could withstand the pull of a thousand pounds. It was frayed, but only by time and neglect, and I knew if I cared for it for some time more, it would be made new again.

I turned away from the monstrous disfiguration and looked.

There among the crowd, standing tall and unaffected by the occurring events was Tom. He looked weary. There was a crease in his forehead unfamiliar to me. But he was there, and I saw in him a pride of me I'd never acknowledged before.

I'd always felt like I was running, training for a marathon, trying and trying to be a soulmate worthy of his love, his regard, his attention and time. But now I knew I needn't have; it had been there, all this time.

I lowered the kaleidoscope and knew the truth.

What indeed was the color of love?

Just like Amortentia, every person knew their own unique shade. For me, it was the color reflected through the kaleidoscope: the color of his soul and mine, overlain to fill the distance between us.

And that creature that so looked like Tom but was not, that I was bound to but yet not, it too carried this color and told me exactly what it was.

I extended my hand and placed it on the silk-thin thread between us. Though I could not see it nor feel it with my five senses, I knew it was there. My soul mark sung.

"Return it," I said. "Return the soul shard you stole!"

Then, I curled my hand and pulled.

The creature fell to the ground and released a ghastly howl. Its form began to fall apart, huge glops of skin turning to sludge and disintegrating.

Grindelwald's expression twisted. "Very well," he said, "If you won't accept my generosity, then I won't be kind any longer!"

All in unison, Grindelwald's men attacked. The camp was thrown into chaos.

Even rotting as it was, the creature still had limbs to move. It clambered on all fours and charged the remaining distance between us. I dodged left and it crashed into a tent behind me, but that did little to stop it; it merely shook off the damage and turned once more.

Tom's face had been completely melted away. Now the creature only had a large, gaping mouth from which a thin line of tainted saliva dripped from. It growled low.

I clutched my wand tight. Yes, I knew what I must do.

As it lunged for me again, this time, I waited until the creature was no more than a couple feet away before ducking beneath its outstretched limbs and extended maw. My nostrils filled with its vile stench; I felt the heat of its putrid breath upon me, so close it was and I to death.

Then, I thrust my hand into its oozing chest and grasped its core.

The dense, viscous sludge burned like a vat of acid, corroding the sleeve of my left arm from the wrist to the elbow. I didn't want to know what my flesh must've looked like then; instead, still I plunged, searching for the object that tied us together.

Crystal scraped against crystal. I curled my hand and wrenched it free.

 

 

* * *

 

 

I always thought Tom was well-suited to academia.

He loved to read—hungered for it, almost; each room of his home had without fail at least one bookshelf full. Hermione would've had a field day, I remembered thinking the first time I saw it.

It was a little intimidating. I wondered how we would click with each other, how it was possible someone like _him_ could be with someone like _me_.

Tom liked the indoors. He liked his experiments and sometimes spent hours in the workshop, slaving over a cauldron or a pentacle, meticulous in his records of data. He loved most the challenge, I think, that came inherent in broadening the frontier of discovery. It kept the mind active, he said, and nothing came more naturally to man than an active mind. I thought of myself and Quidditch then—the strategies, the signals, the adrenaline rush of performing feats few dared with a broom—and thought I understood what he meant.

I also thought, privately of course, that it gave Tom something to obsess over. He seemed inclined to have days of his own that were solely meant for working on whatever he could get his hands on. The first time I interrupted him in one of his moods, he even snapped at me. It was a very small bump in the grand scheme of things, but from that day on, I knew I had to take care of him as much as he, me.

Yes; intelligent, supercilious, enigmatic Tom Riddle: an academic at heart, who sought knowledge for the sake of knowledge. That was what I thought of him.

But not so; not so. Tom had fifty-four years' worth more experiences than me—it was only natural that he had more facets than the mere image of him I had could contain.

I learned quickly, but not quickly enough: Tom loved to duel, he loved to explore, to visit the ancient ruins of civilizations and peoples long past. He loved history and he loved the arts, said that one could tell much from a person's culture—from their roots. I never wondered why.

Perhaps I should've, but that's what they all say in retrospect, isn't it?

'Dark Lord,' two words I've always associated with Gellert Grindelwald. But the world almost had one other, and later, it did.

Lord Voldemort.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, rearranged: 'I am Lord Voldemort'. It reeked of Tom, honestly—he who lived for detail, for the little twists and turns in the long since paved paths—who loved stories more than their endings, of the mermaid's tale rather than her lesson, was not meant to go simply, without legacy or utterance.

Tom was always meant for greatness. I wondered what that meant for me.

_"No!"_

Voldemort spun just in time. The two spells clashed in mid-air, resulting in an explosion that threw many off their feet. I too would've been hit, but a transfigured iron shield absorbed the blow.

I turned. There Dumbledore stood, his wand arm in a splint. In his other hand was a wand thirteen inches long, poplar wood, a core of phoenix feather of which he was master. I could tell it had been well-cared for.

He said to me, "It is not the time for apologies, but nevertheless, I feel I must say it. You have my apologies, Mr. Potter, for the wrongs I've done to you and your soulmate."

"Definitely not the time," I told him. I looked back towards Voldemort, seeing the clash of his spells against Grindelwald's through the smoke and skirmishes.

He wasn't losing, exactly, but he didn't have the advantage either.

"The Elder Wand is an object of power little can match," Dumbledore said, "And Gellert is a most talented duelist. It will be a difficult victory."

I thought of his arm and figured he knew what he was talking about.

"There is, however, a power that might prove its equal, though I have never had the opportunity to test it for myself." Here, Dumbledore's eyes flickered to my wand arm. "A second pair of brother wands, are they not? Fate has its ways."

I clutched the emerald in my left hand. "No," I said, "not fate—

"It was choice."

Dumbledore stared at me over the rim of his glasses. I felt their weight and thought he might be judging me, judging me in his age and experience and stilted, mirroring past. Perhaps he felt like the tragedy between him and his soulmate was fated, an event long written in the stars.

But we were not the same, he and I; no, for where he and Grindelwald had done deeds against each other irrevocable, Tom and I had not lost our chance yet.

There would need to be anger. Forgiveness. Yelling, shouting…understanding. All these things were possible for us, if he chose to love me, and I him.

I had yet to reach the point where I thought his actions completely false, after all.

"Forget it," I told Dumbledore. "I have better things to be doing than arguing with you."

I turned my back on him and threw myself into the fray.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You would have been a worthy opponent, Lord Voldemort, had you not been anchored by a soulmate."

A clash of spells sent another spark of lightning rippling through the smoke clouds. Voldemort sneered and conjured a shield, blocking the next chain of curses.

His boots dug into the ground from the force of the blows. Letting the Elder Wand fall into Grindelwald's hands had been a grave mistake—at the time, it had seemed the only viable bait they had, but it grew apparent that Grindelwald knew his soulmate too well, and Dumbledore knew not enough.

"A stick in exchange for your soul—do you truly believe there won't be any consequences?"

Grindelwald laughed. "Consequences! What consequences could punish the Master of Death?"

"Of which you are not," Voldemort said coldly.

"All in due time," said Grindelwald. His voice shifted, moving with the smoke. " _I wield the Death Stick. The Cloak will be in my possession shortly. With two of the three, locating the Resurrection Stone will be but a simple matter_."

Voldemort's slit nostrils flared. He too became one with the fog, abandoning solid state in exchange for locating his opponent.

" _Ahh,_ " Grindelwald hissed. " _There he is_."

Voldemort looked and found him easily. There through the smoke, locked in battle with two of Grindelwald's men, was Harry. He seemed to be doing fine on his own, but not so if Grindelwald himself interfered.

Voldemort shifted, cutting off his path with a crackle of dark magic. " _Your opponent is me_ ," he said.

" _How chivalrous of you. Unfortunately, I am not so easily baited_."

Grindelwald swooped down. Uncaring of his own men, he attacked—but Harry was gone. The Dark Lord once more took solid form, searching the field with a murderous expression.

No, Voldemort thought, feeling the call of his soul. No, not gone.

(That _stupid_ , foolhardy Gryffindor of his was going to be the death of him.)

Just as Grindelwald looked in the other direction, Harry appeared from beneath his Invisibility Cloak and struck the back of his knees with a low kick. Grindelwald lost balance, and Voldemort did not give him any time to recover.

Like this, they continued to wear him down until Grindelwald's frustration grew too great. With a large arc of the Elder Wand, he conjured an impenetrable barrier around himself.

His eyes found Harry. "Now, enough of that," Grindelwald sneered. He raised his wand again.

Voldemort did not know when he moved, only that he did.

Two spells collided in the center of the battlefield. Instead of recoiling, the spells continued to clash, neither completely overwhelming the other. But soon it was clear that where the two Dark Lords were evenly matched, their wands made the difference: the Death Stick with its sheer, raw force began to overtake the battle.

"Any last words, Lord Voldemort?"

Behind him, Harry moved. Good boy, Voldemort thought, grim-faced. He would not let this be all for naught.

"Only that I pity these will be yours," he said.

Grindelwald cackled. "Proud until the end! I would have made a commander of you, had you been mine! Alas, say farewell!"

Just as the white light of Grindelwald's spell reached the three-quarters' mark, an electric red entwined with Voldemort's green to stop it.

"Yes," Harry said, his wand raised beside Voldemort's, "Say farewell!"

The two spells melded together, turning white and then a brilliant gold that easily overwhelmed the Death Stick. For a moment, wizards and witches across the battlefield could have sworn they heard the sound of an occamy's cry, sharp with protective fury.

Then, the lights went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sneaks in nervously* hi i'm alive
> 
> we're practically done with Tom and Harry's journey, but not just yet! You can expect a short epilogue in the next chapter. 
> 
> It's honestly been a wild ride....I have a lot of feelings for this fic, but I'll save that for when we're good and done. Just suffice to say I'm happy for all your encouraging comments; I read every one and they definitely helped me get this chapter through. I haven't replied to all of you, but you are very much appreciated!!!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me for this long and...yeah. See you in the next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

They say the end of every story is the beginning of a new one, and I suppose that's true. To you, my readers, I offer this detailed account of the events that heralded this end, the end of the Dark Lord Grindelwald—but even you may realize the incomplete nature of its conclusion.

In truth, I still wish to maintain my view that all this came about by choices and those with the power to make them. It was not fate that drew my wand that day; certainly not _Dumbledore_ that coerced the spell from my wand that combined with its brother and suppressed the Elder Wand. And yet I realize that, seen under a different light, _my_ story emphasizes nothing but fate and the inevitability of it.

After all, is not the very existence of soulmates the leading evidence to the foreordained nature of fate?

But, you know, I've thought often of the sight I saw in the kaleidoscope—the last, for since then I have retired the scope to its chest, where it rests in a primary spot upon our fireplace mantle—and a very curious epiphany struck me one day.

A thread and a rope. Are such things naturally occurring? Have they existed since the dawn of time, the beginning and birth of souls? No. So why did I see them?

"A truth," Tom had once said, "is no less a truth than another is to its adherent."

Do I believe it was a trick of the mind? A method of the subconscious to see what should not be seen by mere mortal man? Perhaps. The way of the world dictates that we may never know for sure.

However.

It is also true that the madness that struck me to kill at the Battle of the Burrow—later I consulted with Voldemort of the affliction—was an illness that had struck many others. And to all those it struck, there was one sole reason why: they lacked a soulmate, a balance.

Voldemort and I would not have had our urges to violence, would not still struggle to repair the wound upon our bond, had such a bond not been severed. And yet, the rope! The rope I saw that bound us so! Fraying but strong, leading from his chest to mine—yes, I saw it at such a time where our souls should not have been able to recognize each other at all, and the vision haunted me as much as it reassured.

So, what conclusion can come from this? And the implication that it could lead to—that soulmates were of man's choice and not of fate's design—could it be true? Could it be made into someone's _truth_? Into the truth of multiple persons? Say, a pair?

I admit, I have no answer to this. Perhaps I did see Tom within Voldemort, and my soul acknowledged the connection, and so the bond was realized in my vision. Perhaps I knew inside the moment I was accosted by Dumbledore, and the rest of the story I wandered knee-deep in denial. You can conclude for yourself, but I have my preferences.

It was my choice, after all, that the next story began with Voldemort and I: poisoned, but not without remedy.

* * *

Though the head of the snake had been slain, the body itself had not yet been dealt with. Grindelwald's commanders would need to be caught. The war would wage on until then.

And yet, there was joy—joy at this brief respite, a well-needed victory to find hope through the gloom.

It seemed that because of the enormous amount of work to be done, there was no better time to talk than when I was confined to a hospital bed. Better not waste a moment of time, right?

(I might've been a tad bitter.)

"This so isn't fair," I muttered. "You fought _Grindelwald_. How am I the one in the hospital bed?"

Voldemort appeared unconcerned. " _You_ were the one to stick your hand into a body of black magic. Any dark wizard with a brain could've told you not to do that."

I looked down at my left arm, wrapped in layers and layers of bandages. The mediwitch had given me a right scolding for the length and severity of the acid burns—something that would take time even for magic to heal.

"Well," I finally said, "I got it, didn't I?"

The green crystal of Tom's soul mark lay stationary upon my lap.

After a beat he said, "You did."

That which lied between us crested from its dark and lonely trench. I felt—hurt, yes; wounded and betrayed. He had lied to me and had lied in the most horrible way. I did not think I would ever be able to forget my agony at his death.

Fortunately, I didn't think either of us were expecting a complete restart. Else, the whole situation would repeat on the next assumed danger to life as we knew it, and who knew then if we could come back from such a blow.

No. Enough. If he was to love me, and I to love him, we would walk together or not at all.

"You lied to me," I said. All the good humor in the air sobered.

"I did," he said. He offered no excuse.

That was just as well. I breathed in and asked the one question that loomed. "You could've done this so many different ways—why _this_ way? Why lie?"

He did not speak for a moment, and then two.

Finally, he answered. "The truth of the matter is, I did not know what would happen."

I stared.

"The basis for my work…that resulted in this new body was a ritual I had laid the foundations for in my youth," he said and paused before continuing with, "I did not have the best intentions in my youth."

Here, he exhaled in a short puff of hissy laughter. There was no humor to it all. Instead, it seemed rather intended to mock.

"I sought power…and cared little how I would obtain it. Though I made edits to suit my current needs—safeguards, additions and subtractions—I had nothing to test the new formula, save for myself."

"And you failed," I said.

"Worse," he told me. "I succeeded my youth's aspirations, crafting this inhuman, _superior_ form that was freed of all weakness, all softness—and in return killed Tom Riddle, and lost what I sought to preserve. In the face of that, be it mistake or not, I could only continue—for I could not assure your happiness with me, could not even assure myself that Tom Riddle still lived within this new home, this body moved with one purpose and one purpose alone: to see you alive, and Grindelwald—all threat to you—dead."

I gripped the blankets, suddenly unsure. It was difficult to parse his meaning, and neither did I know whether or not he did it on purpose nor if he only spoke so because he was physically incapable of explaining a process that had rendered him split—torn from the body to the soul.

"You…died?" I asked. "Really, truly died?"

Voldemort blinked slow, the reptilian glare of his eyes offering no hint of emotion or self-pity. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Tom Riddle's body was destroyed, and I, his inheritor, wandered as a wraith—collecting madness and losing the humanity that bound him to you. I cannot be the soulmate you knew."

I was suddenly struck with the urge to cry. As if he could scent my tears, he took a step closer and said, "I do not tell you this to cause you pain."

"No," I said, and laughed and cried still. "No; of all the things you've done, perhaps this is the one that hurts the least…or the most, I can't tell."

The truth was capable of great cure, but just as prone to harm.

"Tell me more," I whispered when I could bear to hear my hiccups no longer.

"The incubation time was quick," he said. "No more than a couple years before I was able to inhabit this new body. Have you ever heard of a horcrux?"

I shuddered at the word. "No, but it doesn't sound very pleasant."

"You have one in your lap," he told me. I looked down, startled. "When a piece of soul is shorn off, it is possible to trap it within an object. _That_ is a horcrux—a dark artifact that can bind a supposedly deceased soul to earth."

"This is how you—"

"Yes," he said softly. "When I sensed the ritual take a turn for the worse, I knew what awaited me was death. The only solution I could think of that would work back into the runes was _this_ : a soul container, to keep me bound as I waited as a wraith."

I took the soul crystal into my one hand and stared. Tom's soul lied here—and though I knew it, though that was the exact reason why I had nearly burned my arm off, it still invoked a quiet awe in me.

I was holding Tom's soul.

"He stole it from me," Voldemort said, all of a sudden. "Grindelwald. On the day he won the Elder Wand. He pulled it from my neck and I could not stop him."

My eyes and my heart ached. I held the crystal closer, held it to my own breast and thought I might beat enough for the both of us.

"Can this be fixed?" I did not expect any positive reply at all.

"I do not know," he said, truthful.

I turned to look at him and saw his expression shutter. It was the most pained I'd seen him in a long, long time.

"I do not _know_ , Harry."

His voice strained. He was scared. He, unshakable Tom and now powerful, indominable Dark Lord Voldemort, _feared_.

I reached for him then. Even wounded I wanted him near.

Voldemort paused at the sight of my hand, but soon he came, and I leaned against him as if our contact could seep the disaster of us away. But no; this indulgence of thought, I knew, was only that. There was no easy solution—but when had we ever taken one?

No more running, no more lies, no more omittance. If for every step I took with him I would take another upon the coals, so be it. Our truths—the truths we chose to believe in—I wanted him to be my truth. If all else was false, _please,_ _gods_ —

 _Let him be my truth_.

There would be no other for me. Not by fate's will, but by my own.

"I am incredibly angry with you, but I still can't imagine spending my life with anyone else." I closed my eyes and said, "Beg me for forgiveness."

Before, I would not have even thought to ask, so sure I would be that he would not do it. But now— _now_ I thought, he was a man too. He had feeling, doubt, indecision, regret too. And he was capable of growth, just like I was, and just like we—together—were.

It was ironic: only now in this inhuman form did I understand how utterly human he was.

Voldemort kneeled at my bedside and begged, in the quiet and the still, "Forgive me."

I laced our hands together.

"I will," I promised him, and then I rose from the bed and kneeled, too, only just barely minding my wounds.

His arms came to support me. I rested my head upon his chest and pleaded in return, "I didn't listen to what you were saying. I didn't _see_. I ignored the truth you were trying to show me for so long, could you forgive me still?"

"I will," he said, "I do. You were very brave, Harry. And I am very proud to call you mine."

My breath shuddered. He rose us both and tucked me back into bed. I felt light, and aching, and sore—the sort of raw only a good bout of crying would bring.

He stayed. Until war's call drove us to our respective duties, he stayed by my bedside and did not leave.

* * *

The steam from the bath rose hazy and white.

Harry leaned back, running a scarred hand through his hair. The water was warm and tempting but he wanted to finish. If he didn't finish now it felt like the words would spill away from him and he'd be left with something more disingenuous than the last.

The sound of sloshing water made him turn his head.

Voldemort reclined at the edge of the pool, his head resting upon his arm. His reptilian eyes were half-lidded, the heat turning them dazed. He looked relaxed.

Harry's heart swelled.

"I'll make a writer of you yet," Voldemort murmured, yawning.

"I wouldn't be too sure if I were you," Harry said. "This is a lot more difficult than you make it look. How did you bear to write so many books?"

"There is a significant difference between academic writing and creative writing."

"It's _nonfiction_ ," Harry argued. "I know what's supposed to happen—I was _there_. You'd think it'd be easier putting quill to parchment."

Voldemort snorted. "Come," he said, raising his other hand out of the water and beckoning. "I can see the steam rising from your forehead. A bit of mental recess would not be remiss."

It was a tempting offer. Voldemort's love of hot baths had not taken long to convince Harry of their virtues and, though he wasn't one to lounge, a certain indolent soulmate often made a convincing argument.

Harry sighed. He _really_ wanted to finish this.

"I don't know how to end it," he admitted. "Nothing feels final enough—impactful enough."

Voldemort made a sound in askance.

"To me it feels…a little anticlimactic, maybe? Looking back, so many things could've gone differently to extend the war. Grindelwald could've kept looking for the Resurrection Stone. And if Pettigrew never escaped his holding cell, he wouldn't have even known where the camp was, or that I'd gone to get the Cloak—" Harry threw his hands up in the air, "—which, I'm trying to tie that in somehow, but it doesn't help that you only told me about him _after_ —"

"I figured the topic of your parents' traitorous classmate might be a sensitive issue for you. To be introduced…slowly."

"Well, _yes_ , I might've liked _some_ lead-in before you dropped the 'So yes, you know how we said we wouldn't do that lying by omission thing anymore? Well Harry, one of your parents' close friends was actually a spy for Grindelwald. He betrayed their location and was assumed dead until I found him in his rat Animagus form, snooping around looking for the Cloak.'"

"To be fair, I had just caught him a few days before," Voldemort pointed out. "We weren't exactly on speaking terms then."

"Yes, I know, which is why I'm more annoyed with you than angry."

Voldemort didn't have anything to say to that.

Harry huffed in fond exasperation. "I'm just saying, a lot of things could've gone wrong, but they didn't. We got off rather light, with all things in consideration."

"It only seems that way because we know how the story ends," said Voldemort logically. "Anyone else reading might think you daft, to consider _losing the Elder Wand to Grindelwald_ as something that _didn't_ go wrong."

" _I guess_ ," Harry muttered. "Just remembering it all…Merlin. I was scared stiff those first few weeks. It felt like the Resurrection Stone would pop up any moment in an ironic twist and complete the set! Thank the gods that never happened."

"There is only so much coincidence in the world," Voldemort agreed. "The Deathly Hallows are not so easily located, and for good reason."

"…It would've made for a good story, though."

"And I repeat: I'll make a writer of you yet."

Harry smiled and idly toyed with the feather tip of his quill. "Voldemort?"

Another slosh of water. "Yes, darling?"

"I'm very happy right now."

There was a pause. Then, Harry heard the sound of Voldemort rising from the water, droplets dripping to the marble tiling—the clap of wet, padding feet, and then—

Voldemort made his home upon the floor, naked as the day he was born, and laid his head upon Harry's lap.

"I am glad," he said, soft.

Harry laced their hands together and squeezed.

"Perhaps your ending does not _feel_ final because it is not," said Voldemort. "You know how your story goes, and you are a lover of truth on top of it. It is only natural you cannot find words of finality, for you know them false."

Harry mulled it over. "I guess you're right."

"Of course I am."

"Ego," Harry teased, and then he sighed. "False, huh… Then how do I…"

Voldemort lifted his head all of a sudden and rose, sitting himself upon the chaise as well. Harry hurried to make room for him.

Water droplets still clung to Voldemort's torso. They trailed the path from his chest to his navel, crossing the burn scars of a curious, crystalline shape lain atop his heart that would never fade. Harry stared and, struck by a melancholic mood, he reached out to touch them.

"Even without the marks fate ordained for us, _we_ have marked _ourselves_ ," Voldemort said. "Burns that will never fade—a soul bond that will never sever, when once we thought it had."

Harry pressed a kiss to the scars. "And?"

"And is that not enough? To end, just how we began?"

Harry looked up. Voldemort's red eyes gazed down at him, a color he had loved long and well. Not always, but enough—thinking of how he loved them, and their owner, and the color they made in the kaleidoscope that his soul would never forget.

He smiled.

"Love bears a color," Harry said, "And I know now what it is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday today!!! Which means you all get spoiled. Hooray!
> 
> Oh man. OH MAN. It's finished.........I never thought I'd see the day. Honestly tearing up a lil here. I haven't finished a multichapter work in years, and now...Kaleidoscope.
> 
> It was first intended to be a oneshot, but that quickly spiraled out of control, lol. I'm glad it did. I feel like I learned a lot from writing it. All the different iterations I planned, all the corners I dug myself into....somehow, I (and Harry and Voldemort) made it out alive. When I think about it like that, all the times this fic could've died, it's a little impressive.
> 
> Thanks for following me on my journey. Really, thank you. This fandom has been my home for years. I feel like I've finally given back.
> 
> \- Special thanks to Alex (aka [darklordtomarry (das_omen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/das_omen)), whose bullet point technique brought me back from the dead in the second half of chapter 4. Would it have ever gotten written without her? The world will never know.


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